Notes Toward A Supreme Truth

The crown of thorns
is stuck to my butt
commanding

that I strike down those
who don’t observe
the rules of fools.

Henry wakes up
from his sleep.
Mistress Bradstreet’s

thighs akimbo.
Some strange god of lint
flagrant,

the elevated trains
tie their shoestrings together
and tumble, of course.

Henry kisses her stomach
on the white curves
of Sunday,

tacos for breakfast.
New York City
stabbed into the land

like a wooden stake
shoved into Dracula’s heart,
termites all about.

A black hole
the size of
Henry’s pajama string

sucks up Riker’s Island
with
kitten claws.

Mistress Bradstreet
has been
a bad girl.

Wallace Stevens
masturbates
in the closet,

or on a hill
in Tennessee
in a parallel universe.

Henry scratched himself
as he headed
into the starry space

in front of him.
The atoms of air
rang like bells of fire.

Mistress Bradstreet
turned over on her side.
The sheets crumpled a toy language.

Her lips smeared paradise.
Eve would
have been jealous, jealous, jealous---

still, the mirror
of forbidden fruit
broke

and Henry stepped upon it
unaware
that God was someone important.

Henry
flushed
the toilet,

the toilet lid
was
Henry Church.