The Arrival of Howl

Home is subjective, I say.
Like a battered woman shunned
from society, she sits.
She awaits life,
a prostitute awaiting a great penetration.

Ginsberg’s cocks and balls and Moloch
are emerging from the sky like Saturday
morning vomit, a worshipped toilet,
cross plastered to the lid.

Home has broken us through capitalism,
socialism and the limbo between.

This dimension and that involves
merely perspective and point of view,
personalities traded daily like black
market children, like hidden baggies
green with life on the corners
of Richmond streets.

Our personalities are exchanged
and changed like several shades
of green, brown diluting and becoming
predominant with every setting.

The exposition of each day
is the Morpheus of Christianity.

Method acting has become a priority.
Democracy hypocrisy, I say.

Moloch in holy matrimony.