Look on my face, in present morning’s light,
and hear me say, “These psalms are not enough,”
with stormy air, with God occulting sight.
You’re right! Add to the canon, your rebuff!
I’ve set it on my forehead: “dust to dust.”
Saint Anthony of Padua, we cry!
Though I am not a man for “God” to trust.
I will not ask forgiveness, when I die.
“God” has no absolution for my sins,
for acts against my brother son of man.
My sister, “He” will end, and “She” begins.
No tyranny can live beyond its span.
Unspeakable, we say it ev’ry day.
I only thought, there’s one more thing to say.

Forgive them, God, they know not what they do,
though, neither, then, do you, and I am not
a better man to save them by a coup.
Start capital, and end it with a dot.
Just tell me once, exactly what’s the plan?
I have a pen and paper here, for scratch.
Write me a number: what’s the price of man?
Two candidates, one outcome–that’s the catch!
I might have read a chapter from your book.
(Skip to the end, the part I most deplore.)
It’s bloody, small, and petty–with a hook:
at every chance, call Babylon a whore.
My pettiness is, now you have your way.
What worries you? Why so little to say?

In retrospect, that painting on your wall
that strains against its frame, which does not fit,
stare at it long: why is it there at all?
What furtive, longing eye does it admit?
That book off on its own there on your shelf,
its loved and tattered cover bleeding red,
what does it say? (I read it once, myself.)
Would Holden leave a comrade there for dead?
All fashions come and go, like drawing breath,
and yet, despite, the photograph remains.
To burn the word cannot compel its death.
From ashes’ ashes, fire in our brains!
The poet loves you; grieve and take a swig.
To gag me, he must kill me: “Fuck the pig!”

I know you think it’s just a “pornogram,”

but this is me, the word you overlook.

My psalm does not descend from Abraham.

He’s not allowed to bully in my book.

He’s not allowed to violate my verse.

You think that we can stop him? We should try.

He says he’s gonna end the universe,

with flaming sulfur raining from the sky.

The old white men are gonna make it pour,

and tell my sister “swallow” when she spits,

and, when she bites it off, call her a “whore.”

Cut off a toe, and then the slipper fits.

It’s not my place to say, “Your rage is just.”

To feel Her love, why pander to “His” lust?

I have, in hand, a package to return.
I used it once or twice, but it’s still clean.
It’s big enough, but that’s not my concern.
Just try it, and you’ll find out what I mean…
See that? It’s got a kickback like a gun!
First time I felt it, nearly blew my head!
My girlfriend gasped! She thought it might be fun,
but then she used it–left me, said, “Drop dead!”
I’d say, “That’s her,” but others took offense.
It pops, and you can hear down the block!
It sprays, and then the mess is just immense!
For what it’s done me, trade you for a rock!
It doesn’t even fit inside the hole.
So, take it back. I offer up my soul.

These words are all the beauty I comprise.

These mumbles heard by no one spell my name.

Set them in glass to mirror your surprise

when fourteen lines exceed the picture frame.

If you would see my face, behold it here.

Look on its scars before you see it smile.

I mean no harm, no damage to your ear.

My trek is long, before we tread a mile.

If this is not the reason, turn away!

Ask, “Wherefore this?” or stuff it, Juliet.

“A pox on both your houses!” How passé!

This metered heart is beating sonnets, yet!

My organ throbs a vulgar, bloody flow.

Give penance to your God, and claim you know.

I do not know the cadence of your speech,

its timbre, or the things it has to say,

but, if you shout, perhaps the words will reach

above the din and past the earthly fray.

I think that I might hear you, out in space,

out far beyond the clouds, where breath is rare,

before we disappear, without a trace,

in telescopes turned opposite to stare.

I hear they plan to send a man to Mars.

I’ll race him there. I’m halfway to the moon.

Come meet me past the sun and ‘twixt the stars.

My trip is lightyears, but I’ll get there soon.

You say you are a child of the moon;

come out a little farther, and I’ll swoon.

This form, I know its angles and its curves;

I know its heft and how it bends the light;

I know the function ev’ry joining serves,

yet, to my hand, the catch is gripping tight.

My hand is tightly gripping to the catch.

I won’t open it up or let it go.

There’s nothing worth it in the chest to snatch.

A vacuum sucks; the things to fill it blow.

(Is meaning lost? Find “thee” a prostitute.

She knows the straighest fare and how it leans.)

The edges of its letters are acute

psychosis, meaning nothing that it means.

There is a catch, without a hinge or lid.

To break it was to find out what it hid.

I dive for oysters nightly, hard to reach.
I’ve had a taste, but they’ve no taste for me.
Their points of irritation line my beach,
so take this pearl, and hurl it in the sea.
All pearls, no oysters–every one a pearl–
their insides sandy, swollen, bitter meat.
I’ve jewels of every color for a girl,
but not a tender bit at all to eat.
Perhaps, I’ll string a rosary or two
and pray either direction for release
from Midas’ curse, before it claims you, too,
or trade the lot for two mussels apiece.
I guess I might begin an art exchange,
although, my gifts have virtue to derange.

When I was green and just a meter high,
you tended to my care with gentle hands.
From wanting juice, to not wanting to die,
I had concerns, and you had names of bands.
I do not think I can begin to thank
some Mother in our short forgotten past
who reared us all, confused enough to spank,
but kind enough to put our difference last.
(Thank mothers’ mothers’ mothers for your touch.)
All we’ve once touched becomes the Earth again,
and She, a little girl, whose fingers clutch
at Mommy, hides Her face and counts to ten.
The memory precedes the magic show.
I love. You taught me this, of all I know.