I quiver blind and deaf
Wind and gravity and light
Define a tumbling body
Blurred rough black against black
A shadow floating over a void
And skeleton bikers crash
Through rifts on flaming hogs,
Spewing flaming daisies
From their tailpipes.
Laughing skeletons riding bitch
Seed fresh ruin with dead
Rabbits drawn from top hats.
A poet tumbles through
A membrane. A puff of smoke
Materializes and dissipates
On a forming horizon
Faintly glowing red
From fires of creation.
No one notices.
The skeleton bikers,
And their bitches miss it.
Surly the rabbits miss it,
And if the daisies noticed,
They kept it to themselves—
Perhaps out of hope
The poet would save them.
But poet gone.
Poet not coming back.
You’re only hope, dear daisies,
Is that you painted a scene
Captivating enough to
Hold a poet.
Make it rubbery elastic,
Gooey and sticky.
Make it flypaper and
Catch a poet.
Make it sharp and deep,
So when I come crashing through,
I capture at least your essence,
A poem for the poet.
Tis of Thee
The nation needs your compliance,
If you’re willing.
I am, for enough money, sure.
It might be hard
To live with you’ll be doing.
But I may be
Able to eat my guilt away.
He died the next week.
The patten repeated,
A number of times.
Until, eventually,
The program was cut.
It was inefficient
Or too expensive
Or they found a better way.
Down and Broken
And I still know
Nothing about poetry
Something like mosquitos
I bet
Stalking and sneaking,
Loud and annoying ly
Demanding blood.
The Chosen
She passed out in front
Of the tv slumped over
Hours and hours of religious
Programming glory glory
Halauluah and Jesus wants
Your gold and we are the last
Generation who will have
To toil away on earth.
Onrush
You came to being
In a burst of white noise
But it’ll be forty years
Before you have the words
To remember how
Form solidified from formless
In a cascade of nervous impulses
Learning to integrate in an instant
And in the next there were things
And a before
The world formed
Around you
Instantly and whole
With past and sudden future
