It was you who played samisen, Buddha--
it was you who pulled this ripcord, taut muscle,
it was you.

I smelled saltpeter in the air, knew
I was home again. Knew I was living
the dream of deicide, with my hand on you,
god, and one hand on this lute.

It was you who taught me how to fuck.
It was you I desexed in my mind. Know
the ectoplasm just dripped out of you.
Know I had been injecting wonderful things
in my arms. I was yours again. In
another dream; this aureole fell as a feather palm,
wrapped your head in lame`.

Don't forget I created you.
Don't conceive another samsara--
you're through. I channel you
into something remote, intangible.
It is you whose embodiment is of scarab--
and nothing bleeds through.

(Can We Have Our Ball Back?, 2006)