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Lore of Bad Gold | A Poetic Menu For Vultures

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Lore of Bad Gold
(The Exploits of an Aquatic Predator)

I am sorry, Dear Reader, and apologize in advance.


There is a place where blood runs in rivers, tributaries of synapse connections that fuel the fateful flames, lighting fires in distant villages, heating the cold bones of sleeping villagers who are lost and never awaken.

(And I must describe it to you now, because&#8212like the wind that blows through a fat bloated forest&#8212there will come a Fall when the snow rapts itself around your throat, stilling the day that has shortened until it no longer occurs&#8212and that, my Friend, would be a loss greater than God’s missing Manual&#8212the thing that holds secrets, answers, maps, and Reasons for Existing &#8212the Operational Directions to a messy mistake of a universe.)

These villages, though doomed&#8212unseen&#8212obscure&#8212should not be seen, they are illuminated in the relentless logos of my spleen’s dark daydreams&#8212and it is for this Reason that they are valuable and tend to stir the somnambulistic crowds toward a revolution of disgust and mistrust, the two Pillars of Honesty that are buried beneath the long sands of a sick Civilization which has only fossils for meals.

They are unsightly, to be sure, but because of that, They must be seen, lapped up, licked, ladled, loved&#8212and most of all: Consumed. (They taste like blood, but that is better to salt the soul, similar to the taste of tears that often escape our dim perceptions. Flavorful. Fulfilling. Finality. Foreseen.)

It is your sad obligation to see it through, to taste these distasteful realities, for the Truth is always choking oxygen from the fish-like Men who refuse to listen while swimming in unknown Seas of Displeasure.

Someday, they may emerge&#8212dripping from the mother’s dark placental fissures&#8212draining their confidence in sad drops toward an eternal beach that resembles atomic particles with no discernible boundaries&#8212and then, in a miraculous move that heralds a dawn not seen since Adam was evicted from the Garden of Unknowing&#8212they will sprout temporary legs, find their fanciful hands (which will later be used primarily for masturbation and murder on a gigantic scale), wave them around like deaf beggars suddenly perceiving the existence of a Heavenly Cosmic Aria, speaking in tongues which can hopefully grasp a few fertile breasts, white marble dissolving on the shores of an encompassing Sleep.

(This is Our Organ: tune it with your heart.)

She is the silent soprano&#8212with no sails to speak of&#8212but we must hear Her Flight&#8212for one glance outside (through the window of one’s fears) confirms a soft impression of wings in the snow: this will be the map of our future fortunes, a guide to the streets of those radiant villages, a stark resolution that graveyards are only for the dead. (Stay away, you Living!)

Use my compass, here!&#8212Hold it close to your beating breast (imagine my lips and the drain of sleep!)&#8212and find the radial extensions of those Cardinal Points that so desperate (and cruel!) try to avoid your lust. We will find them. Rope them like legless beasts in a hunt of molasses, like a starving locust bound to your neck, like a snake emerging from a dark hole into the light of God’s Barbed Wire. Be patient with me, Dear Reader, the prison is inside your head&#8212I come with a spoon&#8212and welcome to The World.


In this divine kitchen, where mistakes erupt as galaxies and mute monstrous manifestations, God is sorry, head-hanging, bad baker, a restless snake trying to eat its own tail, a fish monger trying for some cosmic gravy that, miraculously, will become manifest without those unsightly lumps of Common Man with somnambulant scales not so easily removed. It is To Be.

He despairs to find no normal customers, no normal-average occupants, and thus conspires to reach a recipe that will make this maniac’s menu seem all the more meaningful.

Inquiries: not of kings, priests, preachers, pederasts: no, questions are thrown at cooking utensils, a fishing expedition that will bring to the surface the antidotes to those common cliches; Our’s is not to stumble through the ridiculous mazes that replicate themselves wherever an optical nerve alights.

No, Our Sacred Duty is to question certain unobserved devices that can promise an avenue, as yet, unexplored.

Memorized streets are the most dangerous. Cliches can kill. Sleep is Her attractive Brother, offering arms of seduction, mattresses of monotony, minotaurs of blind-unquestioned ambitions, the inevitable death of all who live, having been born into the barn of bad intentions where unconscious moss grows between the folds of boring brains and habitual hay.

I do not seek the Masters, those keepers of the drawn lids, whose goal is to lull you into lullabies that have wooden floors hovering just below promised palaces of imaginary clouds. Give up those futile wings. Give up those abandoned pleasures. Give up those apartments, forgo your deposits, release yourself from that fatal lease.

Explore the depths of my new kitchen, ask questions of electric devices, call out to modern conveniences that help one to bake bread, awaken to music, break the fast, jar the nerves, pry past the potent pain killers, offer oneself to a meal of perfect eggs.

When is a can opener like a prophet? When the jar, trepanned brain, tin drum sounding on a life-long tympani, symphonic seasonings, head opened to let in light finally falls to the floor, earth dark dust defining a better deal?

Both need electricity, a vein from elsewhere that promises shocks, a buzzing sound that signals the end of sleep, when the container is ripped from reality, prying light from darkness, letting in air, answering with the promise of toast, fish, or a sweet song of jelly, mad marmalade, tomato thoughts salted, extracted, and garnished with garlic?


Ignoring potential prophets, garrulous gurus&#8212we go for the place where meals are made, where the Maniac’s menus are often assembled, where the righteous recipes (leading inevitably to naked fools and fancy snakes!) are realigned for a Rebellious Reality.

“Kill the Landlord before He evicts you! Eat the snake that bears the fruit!”

That First Light was nothing more than diarrhea motivated by a bad meal of Ambition and a Longing for Servants&#8212an Audience to worship a foolish Whim, a bedpan waiting to hold our dreams.

Exit that all-too-common Theatre, shout “FIRE!”, scare angels, watch them trample black-baked wings as They head for the exit doors of newly constructed Eyes and Ears!

(That is The Gift!)

Everything that has come before is but a lullaby for dead babies. Remove your lips from electric breasts, return to the can-opener, be Not Afraid to push the button&#8212release the fire&#8212that distant stream of electrical impulses which whisper on the shore of a pantry filled with Paradise.

Oh, Can-Opener! What can you tell us!?

Peel back the sheetrock, hammer home the cranial connections, bring your trowel and taste the time; smooth the mud that accumulates on a wrinkled brow.

(Picture frame: “Eat Me!”)

My nails are metal now. My nails are destined for the palms of God — that crazy Chef whose recipes run with corruption the moment an author attracts common sentences like flys around a dusty rotting corpse.



Morning &#8211 sunlight, the songs of a sad bird singing for a lost nest; the eggs of longing, the crash of wind that beats the shells, skinned, sunburned, salted, sad&#8212emerging with tired eyes&#8212hoping to avoid the Predator’s glare.

Noon &#8211 three beers away from sunrise.

Four beers away from a pornographic parade of dull zombies knitting words and wings. Five beers away from the arrival of angels&#8212a hot tub filled with jealous vaginas, three sisters lining the lungs of a lamb.

The lungs retreat, a trinity of teachers&#8212who drill the dying A-B-Cs&#8212such a common killer caught in the distant dream of The Day&#8212which, to my eyes, is the only sexual connection sealed in wax and Man’s impatient waiting.

Dinner &#8211 the corpse of a swan bearing an anvil&#8212the heavy hammer of a winged Prick&#8212throbbing to settle The South, fleeing the weight of Winter.

Migration &#8211 Our Destiny
Vinegar &#8211 Your lips
Salt &#8211 Your blood
Sunrise &#8211 Your answer to My Insomnia&#8212a coffee cup into which The World is Poured, the inevitable activation of my Ripe Recipes.

Midnight Snack &#8211 the vertigo of your Vagina, the soft spinning of a breast brushed&#8212the paintbrush of my soul&#8212a knitted nipple&#8212a tear sown between both our legs, the dream that danced just below the surface of an Ocean separated by Time and the sadistic sands of Destiny.

“I am always With You!”
   &#8212So says God while We masturbate.
“I am always there!”
   &#8212So says God while we drift and drown.
“I am the buoy that Comes in The Night!”
   &#8212So says God when His feelings falter…
“I am!”
   &#8212So says God when We assemble a shrine made of piss and turpentine.
“I Become Naked!”
   &#8212So says God&#8212standing in the mirror&#8212exuding the oil of oranges and various fragile fruits, fulfilling your vision&#8212sweat glands&#8212the odor of a day fulfilled&#8212the end of a road&#8212wall of flesh&#8212bridge of moats&#8212the voice of the cottonwoods&#8212the sound of two boats: “Victory or Death!”&#8212hanging over the empty sky.


The table is set: and Now We come to the bread-knife: the flour blooming, the proof of Your Heat, a white vagina, the blade an eternal sharp-hardness&#8212whetted on the the skin of a maid&#8212hard like the anvil beating the Swan.

She is full, feathered, fragrant; flight-prepared, a foregone Conclusion, a winter wasp wanting the Seeds of Summer:

I am the Wing.

She is The Wind.

Her Earth holds my young dreams.


Epilogue: The Dangers of Insomnia

Apex night in the cool mausoleum
friends have turned to stone
families sleep in drowned aisles
small children chased by wild animals
in a dead yet haunted zone;
cities are almost silent
filled and stilled
with renegades in metal wombs
hats back in a restful descent.

Nothing but static
beating the concrete veins.

I lie awake
just this side of the interstate
counting and naming the loop of sheep
imagining tears for a meal of pets
knowing that being alive at this hour
leaves me standing by that shut door
with open eyes
ear pressed to the obstacle
which holds
for Us, a sleeping world of Them.

Thus We are set apart by our optical curiosity
and the relentless retinal intake.

They are not My Tribe.

Lids sewn open forever,
doubting the imminent arrival of sleep,
settle into my restless arms
which at this hour
resemble gods.

* * *

Edited: PC

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