THE KILL POEM

                                 [x]

Though having scrounged belief
from the copper lance by which
I was speared by some brown-
eyed cousin but then so spared

of Death’s sharp trident and grace-filled harp,
it now dawns like the nose-bleed of this last
dusk-til-dawn for which a chin-upped Cherokee

sings out however much less, the more off key
from Appalachia, sings out the self-same ‘blue-
ridge light of hallelujah,’ the self-same ‘blue-
ridged, copped hallelujah’ that throws all

the way fucking back to some (yeah) tossed
and scrabbled tribe of Israel, which I swear–
with my crooked left pinkie finger–weds

some timeless source of not ‘tic-tok,’ but time-travel.

                                                                [y]

The Chinese digging their next hole to (yes) Oz
with yet another gas-fed hog
not to take
another slithery hack beneath America’s vault.

Well then, not exactly.

                                                                [z]

This while the blood-tinged Royal Reptilian Monarchs
are swinging back the hammer and (JA) straight up
to my only dean-dome out of which might they pour
some Earl Grey Tea? Meanwhile, it’s your boy-wonder:
quite lit–as now that Lucifer, that Prometheus, that Hermes,
that Φιλιππίδης, that bird-chested Icarus with the lost pipe
of Peter Pan as he glides up for another waxed feather-ride
game of go, chasing (and you’re going to love this little death)
Baal with his mask of Momus all the the the way back through
the double-wide exposure and delta-ray burst of the fucking Sun […]