Sunday, May 29, 2011

Easter In Michigan

Holey moley, holey moley, holey moley,
holey moley, holey moley
the voice coming from my pen is holey moley
Roll away the stoned
it’s Easter, and Christ he’s done it again.
There’s holes in his hands holes in his hands holes in his hands
and I’m blowing smoke through his hands and they’re holey
holey moley, I’m holding a roley-poley and it’s holy.

There are names on the street but
the streets have names
given to them by a faceless false prophet
saying that this street will be Main Street

and these are the boxes we live in
These are the boxes we write our names on
and told to keep them to ourselves
or inside a gallery where they will be ascribed to ourselves

but a voice cries out in the wilderness
preprare ye the way
my prophet is Taki 183
and my name is Riki Tiki Tavi
prepare ye the way for some sweet shit

There are potholes in detroit
there are people smoking pot in holes in detroit
the city is broken iron pottery in detroit
and detroit is holy - the whole midwest is holy
the whole midwest is rotting with holes
the spirit of detroit writhes and shakes the ground
urban tumbleweeds flying out of abandoned homes
some say the city is dead
i say the city is reinterpreting life

deep in the center of detroit
a child sneaks out at night
to write his name on the boardwalk
his parents roll their eyes as his hand shakes with legitimacy
he paints his name and runs off back through the dark neighborhoods
the building quivers
a sacred text has been written
and the cosmos adjust themselves accordingly
one name proves that life exists
Henry Ford stirs in his tomb
“someone touched my robe - i felt some power leave me.”
and I, Riki Tiki Tavi, know my time has come to act.

The body is a bit of a cage I don’t understand
I have hives on my hands.
the hives of the world are in my holey hands.
my pen rubs them as i write these holy words

Riki Tiki Tavi lives in the city that houses the cock of the cousin of the prophet
Demetaki Ypsilanti
the mighty Huron brings life to the city
but the river is dying
I sit by the river and draw my power from it
I sit on Michigan Ave and draw my power from the sewer drains
I sit on my balcony and draw power from the hunchback that lives in the Presbo church
I know that Riki Tiki Tavi flows through me
and I flow through Riki Tiki Tavi
and that we are one
and that Taki 183 is our prophet

If this body be not a cage,
every Easter I would stand over Michigan
and rub it with my holy hands
Riki Tiki would stretch her finger across the sky
to touch Michigan’s poor extended finger
which lethargically touches mine back
creating a sort of cosmic connection

If this body be not a cage,
I’d want myself buried in the garden of detroit every spring
and harvested every fall by a hot naked man with a hard interesting cock
I would wrap my vagina around it, and we would do it in the ocean
and I’m not scared of the ocean anymore
my sexy, sexy uterus would fall in sync with the waves in this funky ocean of sex
and we would birth the savior of Michigan
and float off in a basket down river.
According to Taki 183 this child shall lead the lower peninsula out of darkness


I wake up at night
This is the night of the day of my rebirth
This is the night of the day of the power in my body to descend upon the earth
This is the night of the day that the names on buildings have been crying out for
This is the night of the day for shit to go down
I wake up at night gasping
and shoot shrapnel from my lungs
it falls out of my mouth on the people of Michigan
the shrapnel sparks in the air
I set fire to Flint, to Saginaw, to Chelsea, to Alpena, downriver which was already on fire,
on Ypsi, on Petoskey, on Detroit, on Benton Harbor, on Kalamazoo
I cough in the night and start fires as sparks fall downward.
the people leave their houses and understand each other’s languages

According to the prophet Taki 183 the people will take back their cities
they will take back their cities with their names
They will write them on subways
on buildings
on statues
on bridges
on sidewalks
they will write them
until the cities are littered
with the identities of the people who live inside of them

Some Sadducees will call this trash
others will put it in galleries
the cage will rattle those inside
but when the insides rattle back
with the proof that they aren’t dead yet

there be no cage no more

Holey moley, holey moley, holey moley
the pen I write with is holy
It’s Easter and I stand inside of Michigan

1 comment:

awitchtrying said...

Totally. Fucking. Awesome!