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Dark star, who has known no
historical shape, but summons
the swooning sun and cold,
diminished Pluto,
as do the ghosts who roam
our napping houses
and see us through
mannequin eyes and pass
through us in digitized clouds
of moneyed seas

Born of the earth,
this failed and fabled space,
where darkened dreams
dare us through tubes
of pixilated light,
and friendless faces,
quartered bodies,
are our avatars
in the endless night ...

Ask me a question. Anything.
Play me with your games.
Answer me. Anything:
Demons, be loved!

I thank the sky lord
for clean water to drink

Thanks

I thank Tom Clancy
for providing so much
damn PR for the military
industrial complex

Thanks

And a special thank you, too,
to the clown in his flight suit
skybombing us in his dreams

And a special fuck you to
the apocalypse for being
such a damn Good Book
and making it so hard
to get clean water
in Beiruit
and for the passing
of fluids through
his oh so cool
heliopadster suit

And thanks for a hole of hot sun
stretching toward the East,
causing a bubble that burns
little words into a diplomatic urn,
and thank the world
for what the devil would do

His imitation is your mastery
as the nations fold and unfold
and the baliwicks bawl
about the rule of law

And thank you money for your energy
passing over the world like a green cloud
being and for hell being all filled up,
by the counting of your digits

Thanks a lot for my sanctuary box
Thanks, thanks a lot
Gift thanks to this gift, this square
where I stand with my porridge
and my cash register or gun

Oh, so much thanks for this taste,
for melancholy and sleep
to keep me not so much
sane but at least in a state
of palatable paranoia

Thanks for allowing me
the rather obvious conceits
of always wanting more
and giving me a way
to step out of the circle, hey!