Mowers

Wild (and roaring),
the men with their machines
ride maniacally
and feed ravenous mounts.

So far away is the still
birthplace of blades.

They've shut their ears with muffs,
but we can hear the shrill cry in
The air, so thick with pungencies
of their harvest and terror.

Projections

I hate the man next to me (so much)
It's because he's not like me (or too much)
I hate dullards, idiots, and sloths,
Men with muscular stomachs,
Poor people, black people, white people,
dead people, mean people, redheads,
leprechauns, bald people, and people who think
math is about SOLVE FOR X and twelve
times twelve (times twelve).

I hate Mark Rothko and John Cage:
Straight lines and boxes
and silence doesn't deserve
to be so famous.

and women
(so much):
For making me
want their bodies
(so much).

Sickness unto Death

I've fallen in love no less
than seven-hundred sixty-three times:
with men, women, fire hydrants,
Various species of tree, bird, and cat.

Why, oh why, oh God
(candlelit God, oh God)
Do these visions of intercourse
press down, and down again upon me.

Might of winter's hand should
make me shiver unto methyl-dark clouds,
hiding rust upon the surfaces of me,
(heaping coal upon my furnaces of glee?).

I weep and sing
petals, ribbons, brightly colored avians
burst forth from my mouth and hands
swoon-swept, I never sleep.

To dance, so incredibly unbridled by time,
Engulf my body in green flame and fly
with great wings, four-bladed: (This I dream)
And some golden cloud wanders bye and whispers
How I am so alive and breathing.

Derangement

Intimate blue love of eyes:
of lovely eye, and blue intimacy.

One missive sets the restless heart at peace:
Peace, missing restless once-set hearts.

Unfortunately starved, young men elope:
and un-young men, starvation elopes with fortune.

I dreamt of lucid violet streaks and gold
on the face of my affection:
Afflictive, golden-violent streaks appear on
mine upon elucidation of my dreams.

Hope to be set free to wander:
Free from wandering, hope-set.

What the hell does this life have to do with ends of anything:
Any hell what lives to do things, ends like this.

Aesir Protest

Odin stabbed his eye with Pa's cigar,
was handed a nickel, placed it there
so that Jefferson faced out,
and became infinitely wise.
Not so fortunate for the bricks that
laid up Hoor.

Fenris bit the hand
of Tyr off in a rage over
accusing her (or him?) of sixty
four years of age:
The national guard balked
and ran off with the sun.
(S)He'll fine you every time
you mention Njord.

Loki stands with a grin
and hands Hoder a dime,
asks the pretty Baldr if he's
having a good time:
Heimdall blows the gjallarhorn to signal Thor.

I ain't gonna work on Frigga's farm no more.

That is a Dead Man

Perhaps the rain is dark, tonight.
Be serious: this is a funeral,
and comb your hair for God's sake,
put a tie on, wax your eyebrows.
Be dignified (and please don't cry).

Perhaps the rain smells nice, like
the petals (and the open wooden box)
that overwhelmed my eyes.
(They took his out,
apparently the eyes are useful
past death).

Perhaps the rain is rich:
STREETS OF GOLD.
HE WALKS ON STREETS OF GOLD:
I'd rather walk on wet soil
and not worry about it sticking
to the white carpet.
I think he'd rather ride his motorcycle.

Perhaps the rain is sonorous,
My voice cracked a few times
on the high 'E'. Eternal: Father: Strong (to save?).

Perhaps the rain is envious,
And death, Jesus,
How am I going to deal with Jesus Christ,
when my heart stops moving?

Perhaps the rain is full of salt:
There was so much ham after the funeral,
there was only one dish of macaroni.
I wanted to take half of it.
I hope he doesn't see me hiding now.

Perhaps the rain is full of life,
and perhaps:
Perhaps not.

Sunday Dinner at First Presbyterian Church - 03/02/2008

"My wife passed away two years ago."
You've said it now, sir,
take it back if you can;
no one will respect your tie,
your pressed shirt,
None regard your stately eyes
for fear of drowning.

You smile: why?
Perhaps you've become
accustomed to the silence
perhaps the taste of still air
in your nostrils makes you trip,
like the alcohol it's so obvious you took.

Your loneliness is radiant and sweltering
like Spica or Betelgeuse,
You took a teacher's Volkswagon beetle
and put it on the stage in high school.
Your son's a computer engineer who
programs missiles and doesn't give a fuck.

What does a man stand for at the end of his life,
and why do Virgo and Orion shine so terribly this night?