Between the sacred and the profane
there is not a sliver of difference.
We are luminous, we are crude,
we are crudely luminous, we
spill our lives into the sharp
vessel of time without a stray
moment left behind, without
an inch of depth undisturbed,
unperturbed, benighted as a breeze
in Hell, which, if we only knew it,
is Heaven held upside down to
let us trickle into new carnation.
Bah! I’m tired of this twaddle
of infinite souls to the manor
of eternity borne. The least is the best
of us, and the grandest star in the cosmos
destroys itself for our amusement.
The joke is that we are made of it.
There, in a glass case
in the Cairo Museum
lay Rameses II, who imagined
that all who looked upon
his works would despair.
Desiccated, a shrunken pith
of a man, he reminded me
of nothing else but
the last slab of salted cod
at the closing of the market,
Despair, indeed, my king,
but not the way you imagined.
To say my father loved Jesus
is as wrong as saying he feared him.
To him, Jesus was a landlord,
a creditor, someone owed a debt,
which, left unpaid, would end in pain,
not only justified but welcomed,
insisted upon, and in the great
tradition of the spawn of Yahweh,
pass on to children and their children,
the unwanted and unearned burden of birthright.
Good morning, says the baptist, and
slaps you on the butt. It’s time
to be fitted for your chains.
Tonight, we say goodbye
to the past, which long ago
left us without a word
We’ve lost the will to listen,
instead expressing and expressing
without end, without impression
as if we were generators and not motors,
as if beams of reality flowed
brainless and wantless
toward – what? Tomorrow?
There is no tomorrow,
today only, in a false succession
of todays. How can there be
expression, alone and only?
There must first be an emptiness,
gradually filled with the stuff of galaxies,
or more remote still, of giant gas clouds
or invisible matter, so dark.