Immigrants come to America
looking to live out stereotypes
Americans for generations
have been trying to overcome;

Lesbians would have taken over
long ago if little immigrant girls
didn't wear pig-tails & frilly pink
dresses; intellectuals would rule
if older immigrants read Sontag;

I never hear an immigrant talk
about Nietzsche, Kierkegaard,
Plato or Kant; I'm lead to believe
there is no Spanish Enlightenment;
no Muslim or African Renaissance

but America being a corporate state
only wants more & more customers
& once u've spent every dime they
toss u away like a greasy wrapper
& open the gates to more customers

I'm not an immigrant & truth be told
I don't give a **** about ur relatives

in my room is a radio, tv & computer, microwave & minifridge;
the radio is set to AM the tv has no cable & the computer is simply a hopped-up typewriter, an encyclowriter or encycloputer if u will; it's a ******* typewriter w/ a calculator & really, really bad ****, oh & email, big whoop, & surveillance, hello,
my **** is gone & she took
mylastfive; charms my pants off w/o even trying
& the sun is shining &
I have to go see my shrink; have to get cigars; that means I have to walk
I love a god I don't believe in & hate one that I do;
that's not true: I worship goddesses in flesh & blood,
another matter u'd think but no, my shrink is a lady;
my girl is my ***** sunlight at night & all day long,
I don't see her much b/c there isn't much to see;
so I can reduce my life to technology (decidedly lo-fi)
a girl (useless shadow that she is the spark
of my whole flaming existence)
& literature (including art or vice versa;
never really sure how that works;
literature is art & art a thing in itself that literally could be anything

I still think of the burning black eyes of thee, Shreeta;
the most beautiful desi girl thin as a sun ray;
smart as my vintage Encyclopedia Britannica;
sweet as heavenly honey, never stinging me;
bee rubbing thin hairy arms together into my memory;
Shreeta the only devi descended in sandals
holding a single candle lighting every star in the wide,
wide sky; whose sharp-cheeks & caramel features
art an epiphany & the definition of every order of love
from blissful Nirvana to the realm of demons
where thou's bare feet truck through snowy mountains
where the albino Yeti falls in love w/ thee;
so perfect as the earth itself personified;
sit to **** in ur condo's luxury super-toilet;
there is always & only thee, Streeta &
my love will always be overflowing upon thee & I will
drink ur crystal clear ***** like sweet, sacred strawberry
scented ambrosia

Her dollhouse is filled with elemental magic
And the Holy Spirits of cavemen, their souls for rent—
The Goddess of snakes crawling through the grass
This world too impatient for love,
The clockwork movements of the atomic Elementals—
Should her body become the residence of God
In the forest of burnt trees, chaos will take us there,
Her black bra of freedom hanging on the post—
Like one thousand naked women in *******,
Jove devouring his grandchildren in a ****** feast
Given the empty heart of the black leather clad mother,
Her salt-filled soul spilling onto the beach,
That made her stop puking on the yacht
Crystalline and sublime guitar gods of time—
Sad Italian films of mothers' faces, sawing a woman in two—
Your Gypsy daughter will cry for you, swearing she's Greek,
Swearing she's Greek but not the mother of Frankenstein—
Erasing her mind cheerleaders climb mountains
To get in ugly girls' faces when Saturday comes,
She'll bring her Gothic drums to trade for kisses,
Tearing her apart in the Russian sunlight,
Her tattooed ****** *** milking her nostrils—
Forcing her love through a keyhole in Spanish Harlem,
A mother loving her ***** and handcuffs,
Her beauty attracting flies to her all-powerful Cubist glamour—
I have memories of blonde demons and angels torturing her,
Her stocking feet leading on the road to heaven—
We all know where mothers come from
Drunk and dreaming like ants kissed by fiery angels.
She'll be all right, smiling with destiny in her eyes—
The universal clock of boy-love doesn't touch motherhood,
How eternity winds down and starts again
Thriving in the Paris underground—
I might marry her, depending on her dream life
As if she were too beautiful to forget her storied fate,
Her prophesies ringing true like church bells
Or the moon at sundown, her sky filled with miracles—
Christ riding into Jerusalem where Netanyahu Sr.
Greets him, the dolls in their Disney disguises,
The charms of heaven dangling like witches,
Jewish hookers, ***** slattern housewives,
Slags of all blemishes, Indian and Pakistani—
Her love of the mountains, her dollhouse
Filled with elemental magic and alchemical homunculi
Who pass themselves off as rioting Monads—

Ever get a weird flutter in ur stomach
when u say there is no god as if there is one
but when u hear a Christian or whatever
talk about god, u feel reassured & think,
oh, yeh, not that one.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

It is never mentioned that the late Renaissance, the so-called Enlightenment & early industrial era occurred in tandem with the witch trials in which thousands of innocent women were burned at the stake or publicly hanged in both Europe & America.

It all started so long ago
that even time cannot recall
where or how it all began
and I was not there
but somehow in part I was
and you as well
though we don’t remember
in the traditional way of remembering
yet we can see in the ways
that leave our eyes blind
that we all were there
in some small
yet infinitely important way
a thread pulled from the nothing
that turned into everything
a spool of love unfurling in waves
of sound and dance
and life and death
and Vincent yellow stars
and pastel ballerina Degas
and time melting into pools of Dali
and sounds trapped
in in the silent world of Beethoven
and the drum beat of Kerouac
and the flowers of Baudelaire
and the drunk truth of Bukowski
and something lost
in the shape of memory
betrayed by what would become ego
was the simplicity of joy
before we had flesh to cover our bones
and bones to move our flesh
and our hearts where stars
that dreamt against the emptiness
in the space between what was
and what could be
and in the pulse of becoming
and into the flow of being
and with the birth of want and need
we gave ego sharp tooth and claw
and drew lines across the night
and dived eternities horizon
into heaven and hell
and pulled the gods and devils
from a hat that we found
upon a corpse that was once
a man made out of snow
from a land where winter
was not cold and bitter
but had a gently warmth
and easy fire that was calm and clean
and things of all sort knew
that the need to be loved
was no more or less important
than the need to love
for time was a waste of all
when absent of the art of love
and now what are we
if we are not allowed to dream endlessly
if we are not allowed to love infinitely
if we fail to live kindly
if we ever forget
the art of love
then the beginning may as well
have been the end