Self as All

Contention with a witnessed spirit

bent on destruction and salvation

thought to be better blessed

or maybe just perfect timing

dancer in the unconscious solvent

a cancer to the obvious

breaking apart in the atmosphere

loosing tonnage like a meteorite

I was fourteen when I lost my virginity

and acted like a complete asshole afterwards

like a proud lion

roaring at the setting sun and sticking my bird chest out

I came nervous and fast and paid her little mind.

There was nothing special about my first time.

I don’t even remember her name.

I was the son of a motherfucker

punkrock pixie dust in my coat pocket

and traveling money I stole from my grandmother

along with pharmaceutical weapon

and sense of self divine

later entire homes and barns would burn

there has always been something about me and fire

the best devil to blow

Mandarin embers in the windy attic

a quick singe to the black earth

firetruck, firetruck arson man

never had a clue

never had a plan

just danced myself from womb to tomb

with T-Rex bloom and doom and soon

found myself at the center of the universe

playing a skipping record

I need to be knocked into

I was in a rut

I couldn’t stop talking about myself.

I was experiencing life for god.

I am god.

I am.

Amen.

There is mysticism appreciative of the gift

a link to the divine and to the self.

There is a key to enlightenment

that opens no doors

and a secret word that can not be spoken

but being free of schizophrenia

I confess no direct line

no words from the all mighty

save every word our of my mouth and yours.

Experience God in your every action.

Tourism Remembered

Hot tea steam

dragon licks

kiss of hibiscus

hit of marijuana

tickling the keyboard with reminiscent fingers

dreaming of Morocco

tangerine fragrance and five A.M. calls to prayer

sex in Africa

rooftop breakfast

a scorching orange sun in the October morning,

almonds and yogart,

two Spaniards who traveled with my wife and I

smiling,

also in love

cramped roads, old Bill Burroughs’s haunt, Café Central

this was Paul Bowles territory

a place of homosexual ghosts clinging to art and inheritance

coffee smells, cigarette smoke around every turn

a clutter of children selling hash, silk and paprika

in crimson djellaba and bright green dashiki

capped with bleach white kufis

little Sufis with fez cap and hula-hoop mysticism

The shops all closed down during the call to prayer

it was the first day of Ramadan

a strange time to be in a Muslim land

crossing the Mediterranean from Tarifa Spain

by high speed ferry

twenty five minutes from port to port

with incredible sea sickness and no time for scurvy

We weren’t pirates or drug smugglers,

but tourists

glimpsing into the brief window of their existence

A man sewed clothes in a 4x5ft room

stuffed with fabrics,

a chair for him to sit and a table for his machine

a lone bulb hung from a cord above his head

illuminating him with yellow green gravy

a specter of nicotine skin

qur’anic concentration

clean thoughts

he turned

his face a holy skull of infinite bliss

wisdom of the despaired

and turned back to his prayer of work

We drank with fat bellied developers in expensive suits

on hotel rooftops, poolside as the evening cooled

everyone spoke English and the talk was of rape and pillage

in the distance a McDonald’s sign

tattooed the mosque rich mountainside

a horrible red and yellow

flames of the corporate plague

that will gobble up every last consumer

We did not rock the Kasbah

but the ocean pounded inky black

on the strange midnight rocks

salty and secretive

rusting the old cannons

that waited for no new targets

We tip toed around the wondrous city

in search of no answer

only the air – the sweetness and the sourness

of the reality

as fifty sweaty men smoked over coffee

and stared silent at our wives when we passed

the testosterone box of fluorescent apes

in wild beard and sandy nails

a cheap and wonderful hotel room

a fast and accurate taxi ride

“We love America! We hate the George Bush;

but we love America!”

the young men yelled happily at us

as they tried to help us put our simple overnight bags

in the back of a taxi

for a quarter tip or dollar tip

whatever I do not know.

I hurried into the taxi, trusting no one.

We sped off for the ferry

and caught an afternoon boat back to Europe

the sea was calm and blue, as was the sky

we sat in the back of the boat and watched

North Africa

vanish.