Saint John the Televangelist

There are times, exceptional and true,
that none can fathom from a practical
point of view. An era born by you,
the ephemeral one, the magical
son of a rich eccentric that knew
well enough around all things mystical.

Your name being writ with a star's breath,
sensitive to beggars and prophecy
while rising above questions of death
by quieting those sworn to secrecy.

Each crossroad leads to a lithe prism
where wedding bells and a gown of torn silk
are held under false nails that schism
'tween the Alpha, the Omega, the ilk,
banished through a malapropism
uttered by a holy man bathed in milk.

Landscape of the Damned

Hunks of Rock & Gusts of Wind

This sentence consists of isolated incidents whose
subsistence is dated from before spoken language,
during an age where guttural utterances would lose
all meaning, back when primates were nothing but a bridge
of small instances created by random accidents.

Back when indigo skies streaked with universal
violence shifting in a sanguine-like rehearsal
that then rang out and rose, even above the dawn,
while dense bodies of matter expose gravity's brawn
by attacking downward in timely installments.

How the heavens rage, seething upon bleakly boiling seas,
as colossal storms force lightning to drape endless sky
and for the thunder to smother the teeming rivers dry
of so little sacrifice, back when the gods would please
one another by playing with great Poseidon's trident.

Are You There, William S. Burroughs?