Spirits: do you want food or whiskey or day old coffee or some of my spit (dropped reverently like rain off the chin of a gargoyle) or blood or poems or dervishes? do you need songs from those who don’t know how to sing and those who do? do you need an “I do”? do you want me to put a ring on it, like Saturn,

like a return from the underworld and a willingness to chase the sun and turn to my own skeleton, and yours and yours?

do you want a shrine of wolf hair and shells and feathers? abalone filled with soap, cedar, sage, tobacco, crimson, orange, a fish, a backstroke in avid air, fire days lying on the kitchen counter with sirens who all become one and swallow you whole? do you need to be swallowed whole, in the belly of a whale or tickled by the sea drop hairs of human innards? do you want to explore the bowels of our sewer systems, see what you find down there? do you want us all to die and then be reborn, with rings and toes and jubilee and reverie and new alphabets?

do you want handfuls of sand? tricks, jokes, sweat from our thighs and skin off our backs and hope thick as the thin film of light between seaweed and air?

do you want minuets or mambos? a two-step, a jive? a hip pop or foot smack or mudra

I am a mandala of saint smoke in white skin, turning brown in dry sun

seeping my mind in summer trees, flutters from the future, in my belly at last,

speaking the language of moths and fluorescent highways

your hand resting heavy on the wheel, thick slab of forearm you turn to me taking a drag

your eyes know god and how to forget beauty

a slant of steel and stone and a breath where the light gets in, enough

to slow down

let’s get out and walk I say

we don’t need the rest of this chicken,

this hell in a handbasket, this teetering world,

this bun in the oven is enough and it’s an

ancient lady growing in there, telling stories

older than blood.


when blood was the ocean

metal didn’t know how to walk

guns were more absurd than starfish,

improbable as ripping flesh or pissing yourself

at the movies.

the sperm whale had another name then,

an easement on the island of pre-drunken waste

a sonar prophecy reaching past the

human hand

chainless and burning blue as a new