There
is so much to fear --
such
as boils on the doorknobs
and
the negative opinion
of
the redheaded house finch
beaking
green seed on the drive
in
the golden dawn --
Or
the insistent current of the murky river
which
has swept so many tired
and
truth-drunk swimmers toward
the
effervescing salts of temporal oblivion
Inside
off the pavements
having
given limping nature its due
hot
girls rock their roles in scanty pants
their
baby doll voices clashing with their flashing asses
Interior
rhyme has indentured itself
to
another term of service in the cellars
of
the parlors de tattoo
where
stacks of chapbooks gather dust
on
counters beaded with the dew of diligence --
Your
inseam doesn’t cut it in such a world
I
suggest that you find a flint
and
strike a spark to fan a flame
to
run along the cutting edge
of
your rhetorical blueprint
to
proof it with extreme prejudice
to
add the weight of its ash
to
the mass of what matters
anchoring
you safely here below
the
realm of the flesh-eating angels
The
atheist knows in his heart
that
he’s no more than a bug
in
mother nature’s shaggy muff
but
I’m not there yet --
Don’t
talk to me of trees like men walking
when
the precise re-verse is Gospel legend
Cultivate
your signature flaw
as
you would your favorite fetish --
Never
doubt that you are hated
and
be left without a reason to lie
scorned
by even the lip-reading deaf
It
is always time for lunch
and
you still can’t afford it
if
you need to ask why.
X
