ACRUX



A few nicks in the pate of

this the 3rd millennium & the

	stupor of 

this adolescent nation.  In the



name of hooligans or grosbeak

	or by the power of 



some latent prophet or the spangled

	helix, in these the hours



of our gross need, (4 or 5 fires 

in the archives): please invoke 



	some musty diety 

	or new limned 

	rupture savior.  We

	beseech,  by way of

this gurgled 



invocation through alien

red mucus, apples of lead

bubbles,the  rusty paps 

of our tampered olivine nurturers ,

	our fruit trees wither



in the shadow of the cross.



& I will bear every inverted

	little t upon my brow



or in bosom or bowel, & whom

must we adumbrate in this wasted

season, the monarch-winged Morningstar?

What prophet of inversion, what

	liquor of the firebringer's

ravenpecked liver engorges my

	scratched lips, unwinged



drooping shoulders, leady bristling

	clot of a heart 

		in this dark apex, Golgotha-stained

bruise-tinted night of tortured reason?



Our tomes, our hovels 

our every outpost or dojo

	encumbered by the wattle of the NAME that

unwholesome embryo ( & 

	I weep for each of your

	raped words, each of your

	flogged tenets, no son of man,

		those tongues are the 

		spleen's speech as 

			are these--I shall

never forget).



	Pox the blessors of the grey

	howitzers of capital,

	middlebrow 

	genuflectors, I expel 



negating seed over your 

fleshless texts. No brutal

	tongue this new speech of 

the aeon, no less holy



	& no bolt cast,

	no thing scourged

	or punished.



You backwards soldiers of 

	attrition, schism-bearers:



I whisper each of your names

to the slaughtered lambs, each 

of your sightless effigies

not set ablaze but burning

	with the tepid

	flames of its own lack.



I bid every dead thing return

	before your supposed rapture &

	sing the song of its nature, weep

for its lost flesh so belabored



by the base law of these petty

	somnambulists.