In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:
The timeless light of my wide eyes.
-Charles Baudelaire (from Beauty)

a Falcon, a Warrior
(for Phil Goldvarg)

For once, a purpose is fulfilled,
the world sighs, shocked and warped,
And understand, you're all forgiven
for everything you can't reveal.

So what artifacts will we shed?
flakes of dust, digested by history,
senses & language perverted-given enough
time, everything is-the ash, the fire,
the placeholder-how can we lose
the infinite wisdom of one great man?
even if it means an end to his
infinite pain...

I choose-REFUSE-to answer, but
it's not that I don't know...
whole seconds, minutes, chunks of hours,
stretched & tortured, shrieking into
entire years, waltzing past in
a death's head grin-

And the falcon struts, yowls, defiant-
The Falcon-The Grandaddy Phoenix-an impossible
implosion of language & history,
flames lap and chuckle, sizzle and cower,
a fire distilled into a gleaming fuel,
washing over me as I sat with my
own blameless, tame verse, clutching
a pedantic slice of uniformed sentiment
and shallow little Oh Lonesome fuckin'
me schisms-my mind flayed open, & I
Saw the possibilities:

millions of snarled & quickened lines
of liquid mercury, all the caustic,
cynical shit slung in every bar and
cafe by unknown, costumed poets,
malcontents content in their unchanging
discontent-it was all sent, shredded,
into the black amnesias of countless cliches.
And I was cleansed...rinsed...renewed...

I was a new kitten, caught
in the howling aura of a brilliant lion,
A warrior of the sun, who cannot
slay but resurrect, cannot wound but

And warriors never fade.

Phil Goldvarg, my heart & pulse thrum
in tandem with
the cosmos you helped me learn
to see...

A falcon's cry swirls in the miasma...
The breath of the unsung.

And warriors never fade.

the universe halts for his dance,
all creation lives for those endless
minutes of beauty and reality,

and we'll gather together
after the flood,
when the world chooses,
finally, to be healed
or re-live our own savage past.

And if I'm lucky, Phil
maybe I'll be reborn
as you.

© Malachus Monk

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom.

-T.S. Eliot (from The Hollow Men)

(for Gilberto Rodriguez)

We last saw our hero,
Victor Chavez Chavez--the
last acid clown & red lipp'd
Cuban vaquero who rose over
Alto Cedro, Mayar, Death Valley,
Havana, Rio de Janeiro and
Sacramento--looming over the
crushed skulls scattered around

The Piper at the Edge of Forever,
Eternal Sight & mad panicked
laugh across as yet unknown
dimensions of hellish freakdom
& flayed turtle poets, crack'd and
shell'd & laid out for his
blazing grin.

Victor seized a balmy passion,
caught it floating and lost on
the East Wind hackles-
"A 3-time virgin," mused
Mad Clown Victor, his pearly
eyes rolling with a glorious
hunger; A wild sharkpant, jonesing for
"I dreamed of this strange bit
of lace and flesh," Victor
said, & tried to mutate
himself at will.

Then the Laughing Harlequin Monk
(an incarnation of Frank Andrick),
emerged from from the soupy
foam of outrageous existence
dripping wisdom and sly grace,
juggling misty green fireballs &
harvesting some evil flowers.

"The universe has no one scheme,"
crooned the Harlequin,
"It hovers in swollen possibilites,
endless pregnant futures
with the surge of broken coke
vials, myths of blasted grins and
Gandhi's fever dreams. The desire
you caress there is tainted, Victor."

And Frank Andrick's 673rd pre-incarnate,
(scheduled to be reborn as Baudelaire
after just one more lifetime
as Gene Bloom) tosses his
fiery absinthe spheres into Castaneda's
unearthed tomb....
The gods protested! The land did tremble!
the final jagged lifeless dance
found itself assembled--and
Victor Chavez Chavez vanished
into the very air.

Now given that this planet's
elements exist somewhat
as conjecture,
all you breathe could be
perceived as one organic

So Victor Chavez Chavez, that
pacistic militant, that philosopher-King of
Victor with a turtle skull slung
across his bandolier-full-up with
mescal, mushrooms, peyote buttons &
a certain flying conch shell he won in an
apocalyptic poker game with Pan, Satan,
Phil Golvarg, Gene Bloom & Graham Greene.
Gene nearly won the whole thing but
doncha know the Devil stacked the
deck before anyone thought of what a deck
So what then? Where is Victor?
is he lost on the road to Calcutta?
betrayed by the Digital Crusade he fades into
the night again---like the opium years in
Beijing, the filthy nights in Thailand,
his unlikely life spread across
whatever Existence is:
an eternal field of blooming roses,
blood-red and singing into history's
we keep coming back to him in
conversations about lost and
withered veins, the tendency of things
to die and reunite with
the fermented essence of who we

just a half-boiled protein foam
A lost carnival of sacrifice and
serial killers, meth labs and imploded
NeoRoman whores---before the
flood can rise,
I hope he's back in Shreveport-

And Victor's caught in gravity's rainbow,
forgiven and molecular,
and while some of the Elder Gods watch
his progress, and listen
to their past mistakes--"But nothing
is created right," sayeth Victor Chavez
Chavez, "and mistakes were part of
of the fucking plan..."

Victor quivers.
and Victor shivers,
at half-past armageddon
Victor saw the worlds uncurl,
and the purity,
enteric, waves of static,
old-wave and blitzed,
a solipsistic olfactory psychosis--

Victor waits now,
and when the tide recedes,
he'll free us.

© Malachus Monk