Everybody’s Mouth’s a Book of Revelation

Eulogy for a
loose crucible of demons.
Blues for the beast whose

sweet slippy snake sap
celebrates midnight in a
suicide tango.

The First Church of the
Bejewelled Devil salutes
the traveler, gold

and silver hands hot
with laughing deliverance:
a bucket of burnt

crickets, wings wrapped in
subtractions of tragedy,
song of the black air.

Holy protocol—
someplace the grief trees flower
like sugar orchids,

and apricots breach
the keyhole, recognition
of the rings of sin.

Noisy widows fall
out of Wednesday right into
Thursday, like cosmic

coconuts that roll
from crazy corners on an
afternoon spotted

with bee knuckles and
a lying monkey. Jick-king
tricks get a royal

pudding and pink enema
cookies, simpleton’s

flush a footwash in
the ammonia baths of

change. Gateway to the
refined trinity of sun,
silence and water—

inside straight trumps the
riddle of the body, goose-
tickled thru a soft

mirror, a dirty
banana dangerously
unwrapped, ever out,

a mandrill’s dance, a
bush bandit from below, gift
of love down your throat

like a pocket Kong,
eyes big with poverty and
blind river lilies.

Shake it like it feels.
Start, stop, pop. Get a piece of
slow release. Do the

mockingbird rag, rock
your baby but don’t drink from
the cremation cup.

Next: Good times playing
on the platinum bed won’t
cover all the facts.

Eat hope and carry
a calm crucifer. Make room
for an untitled

needful theme between.
Fe Fi Fo Fly Flew. Life is
a verb, drivin’ you.

[assemblage composed entirely of words from Henry Threadgill song titles]



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