11
After charming the galaxy brains of the internet
And flirting with the Moloch of culture
I have come to the conclusion that
Only the Red Goddess will suffice
Only the Red Goddess gives satisfaction
Only her poetry can approximate the Truth
Everything else is compromised and co-opted
By Machines, by sleep
How to fight the beast of automatism
Not by panic, extinction, mass mobilization, or armed resistance
But with poetry and sacred friendship
that higher intention engenders
I don’t mean poems are for wordsmiths
The land of poetry belongs to
Whores, philosophers, plumbers, bankers, whoever and whatever
Poems of intention or accident never stop
It is She who can reflect the totality
Can speak the wordless
Can see the moon
Not as a dark rock, a dark sea, a dark idea
Even less - a rational proposition
Let the antipoets exist and blow their trumpets of dogma
It’s just fuel and piss for the outrage of poetry
For the sake of Hegelian sublation or whateverthefuck
For the sake of the Jihad of poetry
For if there is any war worth fighting
It is for Her territory
The Red Goddess is:
The vast and potent quantum field from which poetry emerges
The Red Goddess is not:
A boundary of dust, a sentimental jingle
So raise your red flags, brothers and sisters
Not for Che Guvera or the techno-feudalists creep
Not for the ever-warring ancient Gods
Of material and academic terrorism
Raise your red flag
For Red Goddess
For wine and poetry
For love’s intoxication
And Her clear light
For that is really all there is
12
How radical is your undress?
How sincere is your irony?
Forget the existential clichés
The Red Goddess is the true deconstruction
Let us meet her sirens
Let us fuck her burning bush (the backside of God)
Let us kill the pretentious constructs
He builds towers of religion
She dresses and undresses the world
He explains the technical details
She is the magic show
He is the magician
She is the magic
The lady sawed in half to thunderous applause
She was never Two
She was never One
Nor is she a Trinity
Beyond the tinkerings of theology
And the remedies of psychology
Beyond the word salad of philosophy
I am told she lies waiting
13
’Take this longing from my tongue’ sings Cohen
Take the idiot wind, sings Zimmerland
Take the neologisms and tangled arcana
And all the strategies of doom, say I
Let us abandon war, school, and employment
And other pyramid schemes
And hello to your morning hard-on with joy
Oh let me be a slave to your singular embrace
Love, yes, but also emptying out
Beauty, yes, but unframed
Hard yes, because weightless
The question is:
How deep is our calling?
And true our desire?
How full our brokeness?
14
If only Nietzsche could have sustained
The glance of the Red Goddess
It might have saved the world
From his crazy sister and the Nazis
Don’t get me wrong I love
Nietzsche’s cock and balls
His arms around a horse
His gunpowder prose
Poor Nietzsche was so right and so wrong
If only he could have had a lap dance with the Red Goddess
If only Nietzsche could have had a good
Double expresso and steak
Let us save the world from
sickly vegans with dreams of power
If only Nietzsche knew
The Christ child within him
If only Nietzsche knew he was Christ too
Poor Nietzsche, such a giant and yet so small
like Napoleon on his island
Drowned in Wagnerian waves
Drowned in the 20th Century,
The Century of the Death of God
Will God be reborn in the 21st Century
Will it be the century of the Red Goddess?
15
Winter trees crashing in the wind
Like your tangled hair
Calling us from all Distraction
To Worship
To worship what?
The wrathful one
The beautiful one
The one that gives and takes away
Red is the color of worship
The color of core
Of music, of menstrual flow
Of dreams, of seduction
Of pillars
Red is The bonfire of our plans
The Guilietten of Dreams
The inner fire where she lives
Unscarred by time and experience
Unwounded by sex
Red is the flickering
Of the most desired form
Appearing in the desert of humanity
Red is the fire of the intellect
Unchained from ordinary conceptuality
Red is a warm heart
Unburdened by sentimentality
Oh, great Red Goddess
Undo the iron lock
Break the iron girdle
Melt this cold hell
Of the intellectual realm
Only your Real beauty
Gives time and direction
Only by worshiping you
Will the heart treasures
Be revealed
16
Last night, I dreamt of The Great Father
He put his head against mine
And my thoughts became quiet
And I was home
The Father laughs at alienation because he is so full
He weeps at my madness because he is divine
The Father whose magic Daughter
Makes such wild and beautiful music
Who can deny her charms?
She comes when the watcher is quiet
Her silence is ‘high volume dharma’
Her humming and whistling and wild music overwhelm
All the talking heads in the world
17
Because I am a Man and not a dog
In the words of Monsieur G.
I must worship the Red Goddess
In reality, the whole world is a vast red Goddess
About which nothing can be really said
We pervert her gift with philosophizing
We stain it with dreaming
We consume ‘it’ mindlessly
The artists act with egotism
Make cults of self
Forgot to worship
Gets lost in his forms
We need to destroy the product
Like Marpa’s towers
So that the She can arise
Dear Red Goddess, rescue me from consumption
From dreams and ideas
From inadvertence, from forgetfulness, from cleverness
Let the genius be the sacrifice
The love of the small rule
The abandonment of egocentric dreams
The collapse of titanic ego constructions
Haven’t we raped and pillaged enough?
Either in sleep or in act
Haven’t we dreamed enough
Without commitment, without being
Let us consider our nullity
And let the deity for a moment
Outshine the wreckage
18
The aim is not sentimental
Even if it is romance
To heal?
Or like Beelzebub to ‘destroy, mercilessly, without any compromise whatsoever …’? the narrow view or specter that continues to haunt the centuries
The affairs of the spirit are both grim
And a great adventures
The grimness in facing head-on
The hellscape of the world
The adventure to perceive
And the small blue flower
The copper-colored mountain
And compared to that
Our stories
The ‘excrement of excrement’
The romance, the irony, the humor
The intoxication of wild roses
There is no need for drugs
Even the pain in your landscape is sweet
Can we face this head-on?
This inadvertence
That we have idled away most of the gift
Can we at least learn to dance
Oh, kill the false gravity
The ridiculous postures of pseudo-eros
Oh red Goddess
Show us the one blue flower
The one true midnight
The one true bondage
Turn all our anxieties
Into a rain of blessings
19
Monseir G tells us we live in two worlds
One that is like the clear light, able to receive impressions
The other is like the ape machine—torn asunder in all directions
These poems are the war between
The ape and the clear light
The struggle to put aside the ape
And to let the red Goddess arise
She is not a metaphor
She is fully literal
But for the ape-human, she is the object of pornification
For the real human, she is the object of Real worship
As real as our two hands
And all the pores and hairs on our body
As I have concluded:
Only worship will get us out of this conundrum
What Monseir G calls attention
The attention that is able to navigate the buttonhole
And the totality, the nakedness, and the mask
What to do with the ape machine
We must see his tragic nobility
We must give him all the love we can muster
We must never abuse him
For he is the engine room
The fiery furnace of our soul’s creation
And it is in this doubleness
That a third can come to birth
20
Did you see the bleeding red wolf moon
Did you see the dregs of the wine
Did you see the color red
Take the form of the 10,000 things
Hey You. The sleepwalker inside
Get up. Stumble down the stairs.
Strong double expresso. A draft of cold air.
Put on your ceremonial garb.
It is up to you to make meaning of your day.
And what is the greatest meaning?
It is to worship. And who should we worship but Her
The Red Goddess, who is all nine spheres of divinity
And who wears the attributes of divinity as ornaments
What the fuck are you talking about?
They will never understand. It doesn’t matter.
A poem doesn’t seduce, it is seduction itself.
A poem doesn’t try to understand, it undresses you.
Make offerings with total earnestness
Do what the rest of the rabble will consider insane.
That is what is sane. You have been given a cup.
Fill it with substance. Fill it with light.
Let the sound and fury subside.
Let the syllables unlock the high-volume silence
Let us sing and dance in the early morning hours
Let us celebrate our insomnia
While the idiot republic sleeps