Word drunk, foolish on verbs, I crashed
into the poem, naked as a J, and donned my lampshade,
rakish and unafraid. All across the pastoral, shepherds
drew their flocks away. Back in the blazon, a bucket
of hands began to clap. The sonnets turned aside.
Viva Las Voltas, I crooned, pomp adored and besequenced.
I thought this slot machine would turn up cherry
every time. But in, I could not out or tell – my tongue
spoke to some but not others. The slow blackout nuzzled
at my hand, wet nose, warm breath. Some bastards call this
consciousness. Others, conscience.
Say Arrows, Say Eros
A hopeful elision: this time the prick will fix
and loose discriminate violence in useful disaster;
red waters will rise, the vessel will tilt, and all clamor for passage.
What direction across the salted sea? The constellations
do not speak to me, to you.
If in your hand a white bird waiting, hold off –
I would have the rocking motion
sustained, the land promised beyond the curvature
of the earth, just. (Tradition says two of everything.
I would share with nothing. Let the others fend for themselves.)