Into Eden, a familiar prison
seen again like remnants
of death camps said to be fiction.

A distant knoll fixed against seared nimbus plumes;
under its tree, The One Who Speaks
appears and the current through the leaves ceases:
The code of Christ
was written
too small for beasts.

Hell is below our vision in the
hot blood of human skin.
Tell me the properties of carbon;
imagine the absence of pain
xeroxed until it is the absence of good
and wonder—to whom does paradise pander: you or god.

Incipient scapegoat pitying slaves,
I know it was you in the garden,
that brief encounter
among the stamp of all imprints;
and I just give myself away
like a blood stain fading into
white, the presence of the monad
forever losing and finding itself.
Earth is now a heaven
as depictions of life are better than living
and hell must be those memories survived.
. . .
Her voice: something must remain of us
tracing her breasts with cubes of ice
watching the areola bumps rise;
shattered water beating her backside
as I stare through the steam, tapping her
clitoris as if milking drops from a leaking faucet.

– Los Angeles, CA


Taken in Oakland, CA

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