PINEAL

I stroke my son's skull,
thumb the tympanic fontanel,
and despair.  A bone clock,

it tocks closed
with organic precision --
measuring his retreat to self,

meting the remnants
of his lizard life, his perfect
unmediated eden.

Oh bone, open!  Window
his vestigial eye --

that noble primitive
robed in frontal folds
like a shaman king drumming
   
the moon's rhythm
into muscle, egg, gut.

Never shutter his brain
from god's sun,
the ecstatic slam of Thou,

the lit world
that shortcuts eye

and I.  Instead, bone, spread
like a lover's thighs

to nourish his pineal
with light

filtered pure by profane flesh
like rain through sand to Alph.


GARLICKING THE GUMBO

We know techniques
to remain scent free.
   
Whack
lobes with flat of blade,

secure crushed meat with pick
and, touchless, strip husk.

Transfer impaled pulp to press
and throttle through;

shave wet mince with stainless
into virgin oil.

Tonight let us,

lips sullied and thick with chianti,
grab the redolent flesh --

just chop the fuckers up
into the gumbo, eat,

then seek sleep as sucklings
to fragrant fingers.

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