up and to war
under a god of business
man’s hands stay the night
our common nuisance
a dull anger made
a dull sun
we were together
you an excellent frost
I a great fire
and the street was
a bride’s closet
frost white on the fields
and in the news
the dead hand of the state
we go out to get high
and miss most of the words
with moonshine in a sack
frost in my belly
bitter against the state
the men
who fiddle so we dance
so we cross eyes
whitewater
I ache to sing without song
that music of anger
people demanding we begin to fear
sing their own charge
invading us like an army of clerks
weary of life
with much ado making an echo
into a salvo
may they die in it
and the quiet come home safe
a doll with a tongue
to whom he did all
violence imaginable
his daughter
for the first time spoke
in court to save him
who says he is ruined
by what he sees now
having nothing to eat
and little in the news
but that they pray it may
prove little
the office of hate
in a frightened country
is like a storm singing
a note out of tune
that cannot fit
in or out of an ear
Denied membership
in the exclusive club
of the deceased, I resolve
to do away with wings,
keeping only the wingbones,
like a songbird in August
half-naked from the molt.
Ditto with hams & hambones,
which are only fit for split
pea soup. Human beings
are the other white meat;
pork is a poor substitute.
I resolve to give up bread
& salt & the speaking of truth
or its reasonable facsimiles.
Too many calories. Bad
the fires we thought far off
burn now
burn the high places
burn down to the water
burn poor people in their houses
burn wings and the very stones
burn every creature
burn tar and oil and wood
burn art
and burn bards
burn carcass
burn ruin
burn the moon we move to
thinking that the safest place
I value an enemy head
higher than his life
if he dies I love him for it
a no one who pierces like a thorn
a who who to which
we can give no answer
the snappish owl
is dead and buried
we ward off witches and spirits
with the noise of profit