Folk

We'll be kicking up the clouds from last week
We'll be reciting strange nocturnes for the reds
We'll be comin' round the mountain

Bliss baked in the sovereign power of passion
drunk on sweat and
cheap-ass perfume
This statue chisels herself away from reality, finds
definition where the lexicon breaks apart and
fumbles with stellar consequence until,
with nowhere to land,
the infinite desolation sucks children
into drifts of black...

and out again where Technicolor trademarks something
resembling purple.

Well set nerves know
not even a capo can save you now
not even the true twang of a
1972 Les Paul Custom,
which you don't have anyway because
who cares for custard on a Wednesday night?
Somehow, though, haven't you found
the melody?  Stretching through
these fine wide fountains of faith, willowing
into under-the-flesh-coat chemistry,
something there is singing or humming or
clapping off time.


Big Top

Take off the clown nose and polka dot bow tie,
tie your shoes, pop balloons,
and when it's quiet
unplug the fridgedaire and ax the radio
for this is a concert of you,
silly.

I licked the images' colors from
each member of the vacation
photo album, and put them back,
so ghostly blanks of memories
might fire to be your audience.
Because you asked me to.
Because I was hungry.
Now your eyes ring with applause
but a Christian in the back boos
at the nudity.

Cower if you need an umbrella.
Jitteringly clamor through your make up bag
until hidden scarves and squirty flowers
shock you out of space but
gravity is a bitch when
you find the center
and pull.



Diamonds, Dollars, and Instinct

Now and again the barnacled history sharpens his
story and teeth.
I think if I were a virgin I'd be tied
to a post and fed to the hungry beast,
maybe even salted first or,
waiting for my 20th Century Perseus Fox,
dying of dehydration and despair.
Forget that it is my baby,
my work fighting to free itself from me
so it can suck dry the world.

Impressive appetite, but the horror, the shame,
knowing what she'll see when
she opens the package is
me.

OR at least some condensed version, some
Reader's Digest reject tripping the wrong wires
until KAABOOM etc.  Today the minefield chatters
with plush talking teddy bears,
cross shaped Slinky toys, and
a great deal of Pop Rocks.  I'm sorry
that to share the paradise of
past intrusion something must mutilate you,
there must be these devouring wild words,
the ones that wait for no
orifice to escape.  Soon
they're all that holds me together,
save for an old ratty
guitar strap and some
dried ink.
And a bit of eye lash.
And you.


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