On listening to Howl in the morning
Among kneeling at the church,
and confession boxes,
And proclaiming Christ as the savior,

In musty creaky ceilings
where pigeons haunt like
the Holy Spirit; with fire they descend their shit
while we pray. We howl to a deaf God.

The poorly tied knot,
On my alter boy robes. The smell of frankincense and myrr.
Holy Lord! Why do you need so much fragrance?
Do you stink?
Or do your servants do not obey?
that you fog our eyes
Until we choke on our prayers.

In suspended ash and myrr,
My mind is a like Pilate’s bowl;
It wants to be clean,
But it’s stained with memories.
Memories that flood the cities
Until they wash away people
And its streetlights.

And there you appear
In heavenly divine attire
In sing-song tune
Out of the priest’s mouth—I
look around. They scream God
yet they love you
It’s you who burns their heart.

They all walked out
naked. weightless and guiltless.
Woe these people!
who create prisons out of your words
who wear rich armaments and golden crosses.

You set hands free
to masturbate on typewriters
Broken minds waltz in your blanket
Tears running down I say
They call you God.


A Ash(cz this is not your regular grammatical error)

A fire burns the paper

Paper pulped from the tree

Tree chopped into wood

Wood dropped in the fireplace

Warm, cozy grandma stiches and knits

The cold, soft wool into the warm breath.


Smoke arising from the buildings

Throws away the ashes of paper

Imprinted with words

Words or the soul?

They all cry.


My glasses are grim

With the soot from this city

Motor engines hooting smoke

Burn in ecstasy at the fire


Fire catches my dress

Dress knitted from yarn

Yarn from a slaughtered animal

The animal within me or the soul?

They all cry.


My bed is strewn with ashes

Ashes from men smoking

Ashes of burnt bodies

Ashes from the fireplace


Yet on a cold and clear night

And a stormy rainy night

I like to smoke a cigar

And watch the ashes fall off.

Grab a chicken sandwich, when you are hungry.

I look at you
And I feel
Earth is round and round
And sea is deep and deep
Yet the sky is pretty dark
                                          “Somebody switch on a tube-light”
And I need to write
About this nervous disorder
As a set of prayers
Offered to Jesus on Christmas

Sometimes I wish I had a god for writing
Bow and beg
For words; slithery eel
Dig my grave, cover it with sand and sleep comfortable
                               “I never forget to take my pink blanket”
And words shall seep and sprout
And maybe even end up as my breakfast
I would not have to worry so much
If all I did was eat
Chew and spit
Stain plain paper
And not shed blood.