Redirection

I'm abandoning this site so as to avoid the necessity of using the patriot whorehouse link to spirit rituals. I'll leave the now abandoned patriot whorehouse/old spirit rituals pieces and photos here for a while before folding it down all together. Thus, please find any new pieces, photos, etc at my new blog site, appropriately named Spirit Rituals, found at www.spiritrituals.blogspot.com Thanks.

cleanliness is next to godliness

okay
okay
i've changed my mind
since i want to touch you
all over
i will wash these hands
after all
the hands that handled
uncooked meats
and poultry
i know it's sick
and you mind the flies
that follow me so
but my aim is true
i really love you
okay
shit
i'll even go to church
cut my nails
wash the dishes
this ratty old hair
what's left of it
i know
pick up after myself
and stop saying
christ
i'm only a man
what did you expect
if only you'll sleep with me
under the stars
in the back of the chevy
camp fire
camp smoke more like it
indian signals without language
fishing rods on the ready
music playing
the a.m. radio
the way it used to be
the way we used to be
before the beer
or the food
slowed me down
and i got too washed up
to summon the resolve
summon the reason
to wash up
these hands
this life
and so now what the hell do you mean
you're no longer in the mood
when it's only you
can save me

fire walk with me 

hang on dead 

change the locks

kicks off his corduroy
trousers
telephone squeezed
between ear and a shoulder
cigarette succumbs to ashes
and then nothing
pees on her flowers
the ones he just bought
at the corner store
with toilet paper
cigarettes
and a pen to write
goodbye
on the roll of toilet paper
you piece of shit
goodbye
one shit to the other
he walks out the door
in boxer shorts
sandals
cigarettes
blue socks left behind
in the heap
corduroy trousers
telephone off the hook
all of the shit he reckoned
she'd throw away
anyway
hitches a ride
in a ford pick-up
hardly any clothes
by a guy
with hardly any teeth
but christ
could this guy ever whistle dixie
the sun set
in the rear view mirror
just as he had come to see
his life set
every time his reflection
blankly stared back at him
as if to ask
what the fuck are you looking at
nothing behind
little more ahead
in all likelihood
it's another day in paradise
it's par for the course
for the aging boy
his mama always swore
was destined for greatness

perspectives 

the only good sex offender is a dead sex offender

selling t shirts
outside the lions' den
two for one
iron on superheroes
glitter
100 percent cotton
he was singled out
by the leper
messiah
singled out
by a bony finger
the illiterate multitude
frothy mouths
did then converge
it was josiah ben
bent down
left hand basted
in dried blood
of lions' prey
josiah ben
who gathered
then fired
the first stone
unsteady left hand
bloodied
to draw blood in spades
the blood of a t shirt salesman
the others did then follow
falling over themselves
to wield their morals
their moral code
unwritten but verbalized
many a drunken day
and night
by josiah ben
and it sounded good to them
and it sounded right by them
the morals of josiah ben
unsteady
hands bloodied
trampling over the patchy flesh facade
of the leper
messiah
on the way to extricate
the glittery t shirt salesman
from the living
from the illiterate multitude
from the believers
in josiah ben
unsteady
hands bloodied
moral and just

laughter and forgetting 

love thy neighbor

he's reading
by the light
of a television
may as well be a strobe light
but at least he's reading
when he isn't blinking
or dying
if you ask the neighbors
who reckon
too much tv will kill you
the same neighbors
who leave their dogs' shit
strewn across his yellow lawn
like confetti
a mine field
every now and then
he laughs out loud
even screams out loud
and the startled neighbors swear
they were sure
he was already dead
he used to have a wife
they say
but she never cared for tv
let alone books
and so she had to go
chase the sun west
skipping stones
in the pacific
until the money
or the drugs
run out
so they say
so they say
and they say
he reads harlequin romance novels
or maybe philosophy
by the light
of the television
they smoke
they drink
break beer bottles curbside
and laugh
dogs shit
they talk of frankenstein
steady the battering ram
bang down the door
enter vitriol
and really ring his neck
and they laugh
and they laugh
til one of them feebly asks
what for
and the drunken men return
home
sheepishly
to their wives sleeping
by the light of plasma screen tvs
and a racket so loud
all thought is impossible

a self portrait 

slow children playing

brakes screech
running stop
the stink of diesel
airplane overhead
dull lines across grey skies
birds fly by
a little lower
her filthy window
brings two fingers to the bridge
of her nose
head down
she has a headache
and is just beside herself
mind and spirit
one
but not the same
children playing
one of them screaming
ball bouncing
between parked cars
into the street
does the mother know
freedom
will only bring them down
or is it preoccupation
endless choices
endless demands
all of the problems
really not problems
in any sense of real
she would tell the mother
where there are bouncing balls
in streets
the child is sure to follow
even she knows that much
but this is her last cigarette
she just started it
she wants to finish it
in her peace
she just needs to finish
for once
what she started
tell her cats
she finally did it
and besides
that mother is a whore
her idiot child
a bastard

balloon boy 

happy birthday 

jeux sans frontiers