On Anger, On Power While Listening to Kate Bush While Barely Awake
Oh yes I feel Machiavellian but sensual and why should one exclude the other?
says the dragon from his perch
And yes there’s always timber to ignite, ready-made conflagration,
snarls the ghastly dragon, effulgent and lithe
Sniffing the foundations of an unreachable place on a beach of slippery dark
Oh yes poetry for those who cannot seem to illuminate their own castles built
on the back of others, hurls the awesome beast
Call it obscurity
Something sheltered in a book like a second language smoldering on multiple
tongues twisting in pain
Oh yes poetry for the leader whose iPad goes blank like the mind inside a
chopped off head
Because this shit escalates quickly and don’t we know that already?
Oh yes poetry for the handsy bossman who says governments do shady things with
other governments and he’s ok with that
Things involving people with a particular set of skills and this ain’t no Liam Neeson
movie much less poem
Call it darkness
Things like bashing in a set of teeth in a mouth gurgling red in a face once
equipped with gorgeous eyes and
the kid is no older than ten
The dragon goes on bellowing,
Hefty acts of hate beget larger acts of same because that’s just too much fun
to pass up
Oh yes I’m feeling fiery, he slurs from atop the tower, lit
on Dracarys daiquiris
And if I only could/I’d make a deal with God/
I'd get him to swap places, warbles the dragon—But what difference would that make?
The men in vests & masks have
Bulldozers & backhoes
on a Monday
on a gravelly beach
dead set on making life
that builds dissonance—
A rhythm like a giant sewing machine
rips apart the earth—
a misshapen crater
under the bluest of skies
only to fill
with pointy brown rain
the next day
A two-part arm on a poised excavator
becomes a long-necked
dinosaur named CAT
that pivots in place
as it stays
by not eating
surge uphill on our street
Masks on the men exiting the trucks
shatter across their
faces & the faces of those
who like me
in robes & sweats
as Earth forgets its big day
This Is Not My Last Poem
I am in possession
of this very minute. Oops, gone.
Constant egress, oops…
My head, a flare
snorted by far away bodies
The hour losing mass
under my feet. Rain, give more.
Everything must go.
Like a lizard ripped apart by another lizard
dreaming of being eternally bilingual
under a sun cock-blocked by
clouds. Rain, give us more.
awash in storm.
In the meantime
sustain me, love. Isolated chocolate
on a pillow,
I began unwrapping you
after my hands, once clamped together
like clams in prayer,
opened a book.
Then another book.
I would never fall in love with Becky Thatcher.
Yet what else could have
been realer than
Tom Sawyer & Huck Finn
in a church attic? (And what was really
going on between those two?)
What could have been
more real than the real boys
to find other
Not to snatch
only to treasure,
pellucid on my palm.