Tag: Power

Illumine

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Robert Rauschenberg, Kickback, 1959.

 

 

You see

an illuminated hourglass.

 

I see

you

held down and red,

a rape reversed,

Riders on the Storm

playing in the background.

I tighten my

black leather strap-on-

all I need is love, bitch.

 

Feel

the slave you never split

rip the wings off your

Day of the Dead

monarchy

like a tangled knot,

making you beg to choke,

heads or tails,

on my rubber barrel.

 

Tell me you want this

blood

running down your legs,

my ritualistic hands

around your neck,

Esperanto,

this one last

burnt offering for

Synagoga.

 

 

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Origins

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(Robert Rauschenberg, Overdrive)

 

They sent me off

with the lunatics.

 

The shattering laughter implied

I would be assigned a new identity

shortly.

 

Once they broke into

my dreams

I heard the bell

sound black.

 

There were already several inches

of rain.

 

Do not tell me

you don’t hear it.

Do not,

for one second,

lead me to that place you name

integrity

and then convince me

of silence,

then

help me, God I’m dying,

down here upon the shore,

I can’t think or feel anything

anymore.

That wasn’t supposed to be heard.

It wasn’t supposed to be know that

these were the words I prayed

even after I stopped praying.

 

There is nothing

where there once

were gallant and geological features

I could piece or stack,

or even chisel away at,

if that’s what I felt

I needed to do.

 

But now I am empty.

I am changed.

 

The gravel, the barbs,

the pooling rains

that settle within that space

drown in the yellow waves

of the sea.

 

 

 

 

From Both Ends

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(Robert Rauschenberg, Untitled)

 

A mercenary

tracks her murder

to a controlled burn

tourniquet

strangling

men with AR’s

guarding

a pathological sense

of entitlement.

 

She has taken on the characteristics

of the war.

 

She hunts a corrupt, criminal

underground,

an invisible

crime scene.

 

She wears the

collateral black

violence

too few have endured.

 

She ranges a more

encrypted description

of the suspects.

 

A dying man

drones psalms

from the old country.

 

Another is waiting.

Wings

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(Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee a Second Before Awakening, by Salvador Dali)

 

Sometimes there is a place,

an opening in the clouds

we shoot up into,

demanding God’s presence.

 

Within every cloud

you search the sky,

rip the sun apart,

tear through supposed

storms meant to kill,

but for your angels.

 

We revert to our innocence

while searching for

what is left of our

intact souls.

 

Take me to that path,

if not to God,

then to the perfect silence

of the Elysian Fields

where those without sin

walk a profound nothing

to drown

like a dying religion.