THE GENESIS TRANSMISSION

Then we’re on a beach in the predawn dim
listening to low horns sound from the deep.

A froggy didge

The dirge of wind 

We huddle close and wait for light
to shatter across the plane.

Wind picks up

Limp synth begins

The synth is a sun
that grows in my sternum.



When the sun strains finally up
it will be an oiled bicep

A hesitant match

If bicep:    subtle body:

the face of god we never see

but feel
like a radiant sun
crowning in our sternum.

If match tip:    let it sear this embrace
         to permanent shadow.

Let nuclear winds spiral
around us,

  irradiated


love of mine—
Let the sand go 

    to glass.




Don’t let the devil enter
on his steed of metallic laughter.

His electric guitar
splinters the tender song!

Birds flee the beach—
Fear takes the flock— 

When the devil comes he comes
as a human voice
wrapped in radio static.

His white noise infiltrates the dream.
His many human voices speak in nonce

So it’s kind of like a neuro-train / But you pay / You’re connected / and that’s the stuff that we like

Now a sound, as if inside
the body.
    The liquid sound of a steel blade
          working between two ribs.
          The dismal rip of fascia,

         impersonal.


On and on His idle hand
diddles steel strings

while coins clink
in an aluminum bucket
        as if to keep the tortured time.

O, my Ashen, my Petrified 

Now this
sudden silence.

Don’t let me go down low
to scratch around in leaves.
Give me back the sea.