Florida

Weeks in May

Radio silence
Unmedicated manic hybris
Working like a horse
Gray like a Warsaw wednesday
I’m in mental exile like Martin Luther
I fish by the canal every day
And pray for the PLO
My wife will give birth to my daughter
I spend two hours in the gun store
Every father of a daughter should own an AR

In the Norwegian church in Florida

A Danish man tells that his first love
was a finnish cleaning lady with a knife in her purse
at a hotel in Helsingør 1974
I take a mouthful of steaming coffee and nod listening
translating his accent into swedish
palm trees outside wallow in the wind
blue stained glass surrounds us
and bouquets of white lilies
beneath the portrait of the princess

Saintly flesh

Humans are candlesticks
they get hot when they carry the flame
of God within like ingnited Spirit
the children of the Lord Sebaoth
indwelled by the jet fuel of faith
in order to breath the gospel into
the dying lung of this world
hell or heaven bound
the eternal confrontation
in the backyard of Fort Europa
where the immigrant hoards are roaming like starved hyenas
for saintly flesh

Psychoanalysis

Over and over again

the ongoing psychosis named reality

throws at us the vile complications of existence

like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll

when you are born among proletarians

and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist

like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights

men that walk the same sidewalk as you

the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions

trapped in the same staircase of materia

causing the universe to circle reason

and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence 

like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film

as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern

battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses

while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues

like the sorrows of young Werther

in the blood of your martyred nightmares