“on patti smith”


warrior with your words,

you
sought

freedom,

release, release.


freedom, it calls to you

it calls to you.

and i, too, seek confessional.


jesus never died for my sins
either, patti.

but in the name of the spirit and the soul

the holy holy soul,
i say warrior and i say vanguard,


crusader.


rock and roll is for the people,

rock and roll is for the power,



and your poetry is for god.
she

herself, may muse to you tantric
rhapsode.


you invent prayer for

wholeness of existence - tragedy of birth - guttural virtuoso


each word white hot
crackling on the tongue
that licks your clit
and clicks in your mouth

your belief in rimbaud,

in robert,

in love for sonic,
in your dreams,

in your climax,

in rite,

both you and i:

soulful, release.


punk

is one of many words
that it could be
but i call it beauty in jarring sensation
of your creation.

human, your order.



discovery of the unfamiliar.
human, the new words for



ancient needs.

human, “don’t fuck with the past


but fuck plenty with the future.”

human, seeking nerves under
your skin.

your guitar and your howls become
your instruments of battle

tools to carve the groove
i groove to. live on.
feed on. patti.

Crossing Veins

home has yet to manifest in consciousness,
except for memories which cling,
static-
along the walls
of black holes in junk closets.

filth and trash built a solid wall against supra-being
until routine purge
scrapes my interior, that
meta-
place where all of the pressure against my spine sets.
excavation is visceral,
placement, episodic,
and i transition to new realms.

i believe it is my rising sign in scorpio
that fixates in making origin;
responds to history lost in
shadowed euskara rivers
and the dark, hard
andean leather of
rancheros del gobierno
my abuelo refused to skin
off his back to warm
an american family.

thus, crossing veins in
beating and birthing organs -
quicksilver floods
cut into topography
of libra sun,
ice over secret impulse
for warrior-god to choke-hold venus
desire, attune to taboo
masochistic healing rite
on pluto.

what i recall, myself,
are the edges of kitchens
a line of grime
from the refrigerator to the counter end.
places that no one thinks to touch or care
or tend-
bags of cans collecting wet stale smells
with the promise to be exchanged for tomorrow’s pizza dinner
i think about eating tomorrow when i think about home.
and that is my moon sign in taurus.
stubbornly earthbound

home is found in space
the stars claim for me,
their momentary collision.