My mission in the world of literature is the same as my life mission—to save the WORD from “whatever” living as “whatever” and dying as “whatever.” This can only be accomplished by unmercifully confronting the intelligentsia of the world and their penultimate lie of Rationalism.

Only through Human Nature can a lie be seen as a lie and not merely rationalized away as a misunderstanding or recalibrated into a reality that doesn’t exist . . . or worse, is perverted to the point of evangelism.

                                                                                                                          Peter Jacob Streitz

Revolution is an erection
Or at the very least
A long drawn out
Orgasm
With activism
An alcoholic shot
Of intellectualism
Mixed with a hint of murder
Or killing
Or the very least
A wisp
Of being a very bad
Child
Driving Daddy nuts
And Mommy
Back to the bottle
For the crime
Of not having seen
Not recognizing
Not singing
Praise be
To the preciousness
Of their distraught
Teen . . .
And for this sin
Of omission
All parents
Must pay
For their neglect
And ignorance
Regardless of the intent
Or reason
Not even self-preservation
Can protect them
From this new love
That knows
Only the cause
As the commitment
With vows of chastity
Meaning
Only the purification
Of the unchaste
At all cost
Without hesitation
Or pity
Turning lovers
Into traitors
And friends
Into fiends
While the masturbatory
Truth
Of self-aggrandizement
Becomes gospel
To the only ones
Who count

They’re alive
Sitting around Reception
Or wearing the sheets
Versus soiling them
Sunning poolside
Then diving in the dry end
While drinking
Out of glass containers
Ignoring the rules
Of abandoned
Roadside motels
Where most spooks
Are housed
Especially the fly-by night
Enterprises
Located off the interstate
And bypassed by
The super highways
That don’t cotton to phantoms
Not the younger ones, anyway
Sure they’ll steer you towards
The famous places
That George Washington haunts
But that’s not Grandma
Or Uncle Fred
And it’s most definitely not
Those teenage parents
On the run
Stopping
At the Dreamland Motel
To escape
A long dead father-in-law
Who wants to strangle
The perpetrator
Of the pie
In his daughter’s oven
These are the true ghouls
Living large
In their descendants’ minds
They don’t shriek or moan
Or rattle a chain
Hell they’d kick their own ass
For banging on the walls
If they weren’t invisible
No, these apparitions
Drip the blood the medic
Talked about
And the washerwoman
Can’t remove
From her essence
Or the bathroom floor
Nothing wipes clean
These goblins
As they both mercifully
And without pity
Stain the memory
With spirits
That never die
. . . and specters
That are still part
Of the present
Whole

An empress
Nubian black
Emerged on stage
The music beat
The dance pounded
Without warning
Like a bird of prey
She stood stock still
Hovering . . .
over the sexual quagmire
Studying it
Deciding on the kill
Before slowly voguing
Down a raised runway . . .
running parallel to the bar
All lit like a landing strip
For celestial spaceships
Glowing a neon blue
Luminously smudging
Her skin
With oily shadows
Of light and dark
Heightening the anticipation
The insanity
Of her getup
Leather chaps, vest, and a Stetson
As pink as sex itself
. . . and strapped tightly . . .
To a highly burnished thigh
Was a holstered weapon
So dangerously long
Its threats were multiple
Like her visage
That exuded an impertinence
Past royalty
One that knew
Only the satisfaction
Of her own hand
That snatched
Her vest open and shut
Exposing monstrous breasts
That swelled and crested
Like sea serpents
Roiling above a waist
As round as a man’s hands
Strangling a lover
Her fingers
Within inches of a G-string
A rawhide patch
Covering the wonder below
Striking quick as a rattler
She drew the six-shooter
Firing a blank into space
The shot was loud
But nobody flinched
Not a sound
From the unseen faces
While smoke drooled
From the weapon’s snout
The air went dead
As she stripped bare
Except for her sidearm
She stood cowgirl proud
Exposed
Before lowering herself
In a constipated squat
Grimacing, she took aim
On the invisible mugs
That spectated cold and hard
The music stopped
A shootout
Five shots blazed
Into the darkness
Nothing
Not a sound
Silence
Standing upright
With nothing else to bare
She threw her head
Straight back
And wantonly slid
The red-hot barrel
Deep down her throat
Engorging it
A manlike
Adam’s Apple appeared
It bulged and bounced
Click
Click, click, click
A glass tipped
A beer bottle tumbled
A new song throbbed
A flat-chested Caucasian
Took
Her place