Barefoot On Her Knees

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Picasso and Einstein taking up where twisted Freud and crazy Nietzsche left off, where Hitler went back to and where Sarah Palin wants to go—
Barefoot on her knees with mouth open,
Tongue out waiting to filled with the Holy Spirit—
I find it easy to imagine what the first moderns must have felt like watching the Belle Epoch drown itself in blood on the battlefields of the First World war, Pound and Eliot going mad and getting lost—

Picasso got lost in his cubicle, Einstein in his equations—
Hemingway got lost and found himself when Fitzgerald bought drinks for everyone, Eliot taking Holy Communion, Pound preaching fascism, Hemingway living and dying From a shotgun blast to the head years later—
Lorca taking it in the ass in the sultry Spanish afternoon,
Gunshots ringing out all around him—
Did Hart Crane write difficult poetry because he was a homo—?
Pound and Eliot wrote difficult poetry too,
John Cage writing difficult music that Merce Cunningham could dance too, Victoria’s Secret supermodels replacing Gibson Girls
In the imaginations of dead soldiers—
Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth surviving in the memories of whoever cared to recall their black and white beauty—
I prefer Betty Page to any Russian spy you can name—
There are thousands to choose from on the streets of Moscow
But Sarah Plain knows the ones that are good to go—
She can see them from her bedroom window
Turning tricks on the freezing corners—
But what I want to know is which ones are into bondage
And which only want to watch old American musicals
Because I know that Russian girls don’t understand Japanese cartoons
The way Korean girls do—
Tattoos covering their albino bodies—
Performing in staged gang bangs with the sons of Oligarchs
And switchblade carrying gang members for worthless rubles—
I think I know how the Modernists felt when they saw the decrepit Victorian society go down under machine gun fire and mustard gas—
Hitler emerged from the ashes and Stalin rose from the streets
Of Georgia to make a name for himself in Stalin’s pocket
And Trotsky died of a headache in between orgasms
Between Freda Kahlo’s surreal broken legs the way all Communists and Jews do, yes, I said that all Jews die between Freda Kahlo’s legs,
The red gash splattering their’ inert faces with her purple menses—
And from this reflection in the broken mirror of America
Jackson Pollack learned to paint In Benton’s shadow and Diego Rivera sucked Rockefeller’s dick in the high-rise elevator as it went up at rocket speed, Kennedy meeting Marilyn on the moon
As the Soviets flew by with robot precision
But it was too lat for Betty Page to open her legs
For the hustler to step inside and find Jesus—

Barefoot on her knees,
She opened her mouth to receive the communion wafer from the black priest, the Soviets not believing in Jesus,
But then who can deny the man walked the earth barefoot and celibate—
Did Jesus Christ masturbate on the hills overlooking Sodom
With the disciples looking on as if he were showing them how—
Did Mary Magdalene offer to do them all up on that hill as Satan looked on with envy—

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