nyc puja

death cult dance,
manhattan machine,
gears grinding,
churning forth the heads of a
thousand lovers a second,
the rebirth is exponential,
the waves of soot and blood
end in blacken'd pooles that
litter the asphault and the gutters,
the only thing solvent enough
to cleanse us here
is the lifesblood of that very process,
the afterbirth of an orgy of sense
and
spending,
we have no choice but to smile about
the whole thing. 
hold the gun to your own head,
peel back the lips,
let her rip,
and you could even convince
yourself that it is fun, fun, fun. 
smile, son, smile.
remember that kali is here,
she is watching,
and if you love her enough
she might even fuck you senseless tonite,
and senseful tomorrow. 
welcome home...
welcome to the waking dream that is new york city
welcome to the sleepwalkers dance,
the naked ballroom,
the listless mother of a million orphans and her
uneasy echoes,
sonarlike waves sent across a million
miles of space and time
echoing off'o the backs of your eyes,
the bottom of your gut,
mapping,
stretching,
reaching
for a heart in the midst of this whirlpool,
this storm,
this silence,
this peace,
the quietest din i have ever heard
is the workings of these millions,
brushing up against one another. 
i thank the gods for losing my mind,
there is no time here for it anyhow.
all you have to do is kill yourself,
and there is nothing left to stop you
 from falling in love. 
i am as ready as i ever was. 
i am as in love as i ever was,
the alter is her,
her streets and walls,
her cars,
her underground,
her blessed,
her cursed,
thier faces,
the lines,
the wires,
the smokestack sky,
the lowly trees,
the hours,
the years,
the sparkling lights
of the city that has never slept,
nor woken up.
the alter is here,
my devotion is offered in myself,
my worship is every second,
every breath,
every day,
all day. 
she can have them all.