Purging the Soul

Ever up from the forest time wailing,

The she wolf lost further back in his head.

The guardian hides still beyond seeing

With pools to wash in when his sins are paid.

He clings and slides and steps while he grovels.

But prayers from below still lighten his breast.

Standing even in his latex envies,

Luis had eased the painting in his chest.

He brought it forward and up, heaving with

The strengthening of the wind on his back.

Hands and feet sticky with the wet clay earth,

He rests from his climb, sliding slowly back.

Panting with effort and knowing his worth.

He rests from his climb, sliding slowly back.

The Jellyroll and Sugar of Death

Doomed as we are to walk through the thin light

Of shrinking lost souls peopled in the black

Cloak of mourning with their eyes the glossy

Gleam of morning pastries. With tears like the

Sticky sweet frosting on the sides of a

Hot dipped Krispy Kreme. And pain like the smell

Of freshly fried dough. Their cake knows how the

Blue eyes take their exploration of death.

The wafting smell of fried dough is language

In the depth of pain. Only delicate,

Delight of guttural sounds can escape

Between the happy bouts of bites and buns.

Bring the pastries, the tea, or the coffee:

Everything human in the jellyroll and sugar of death.

The Modern Epic

Virgil pumps the bellows. With tiny rings

Of smoking death escaping the mouth of

Hell through the pillars of lost hope. The pit

Darkens to a glowing black heart. Our

Bodies corrupted with scale. Removed. Scraped.

Beaten. Shoved back into the furnace. Souls

Bare again to the flame. To be shaped. To

Be burned. To be beaten into rings and

Quenched in the still falling rain. To be worn

On the fingers of Sitwell and Osborn

Alike. Each ring a blast of flame black as

Coke and clinker. Coal and ash. A postwar

Deconstruction. The world, blank and godless.

The Antichrist suffering from old age.

October Poem 36: If You Don’t Remember Willie Nelson, You are Him

And while we two were left for the cleaning

Lady through a sweet chocolate parting gift

Of croutons over red wine. A job well

Done. And candied marmalade orange rind.

Willie Nelson had run off with a whipped

And runny cocoa-anything. Although

Mushrooms followed ribs and the magically

Unopened case of Bud light folded meat,

He could take the cream explosions while

Having to hear the tone deaf bursts of song.

The bursts of song that made him think that his

Womanly long hair gave him Sampson like

Strength in the musical arts. Without art.

Without strength. Without a musical ear.

October Poem 27: That Old Narrative Jive

Waiting sharp and shiny on the forked end.

To stop thinking to the next good line. The

Darkness of the trek to your car was made

Even blacker by the blinding of the

Field lights through the choke of leaves in the trees.

Take off your God goggles and succumb to

The wispy lip of Mister Five O’clock’s

Geedunk van stalking neighborhood streets in

Search of unsuspecting children mostly

Reclaimed by a belief in a Christian life.

To understand a text. To believe that

You know the world. To understand that a

Cigar is just a cigar except when

It doesn’t jive well with your narrative.




October Poem 26: Cloaked in Darkness

You flap for open water to give you

Enough speed for your low angled assent.

The fluorescing against the unexposed

Film. And the new chemical exposure

Of early childhood impaled below

You. And the hallucinations to save

Yourself and the end of the Indian

Summer. And poetry is the last thing

Going to sleep. You can blend abstracting

Imagery in an elegant poem. To

Mine out the abrasive and in-your-face.

And attempt similar tactics to hear

The dry bones clacking like old walking sticks.

The path that turned sharp into the darkness.




October Poem 20: How Political Sausage is Made: The Liberal Chainsaw Massacre

Inherent guilt and inherent bias.

Injecting Novocain to the nation.

The perpetual spinning of white blades

Pushing forward currents of air panning

Back and forth over the lying bodies.

To dry you to a rigid leather of

Submission. To hollow out and wear you

Like a butcher’s smock, a pair of boots, and

Elbow length gloves. To puppet you through the

Motions of control. To cull dissenters

Like so much chaff among the wheat. Like so

Much grist for the mill. Like so much meat for

Sausage. Spiced, cured, and smoked to be served on

A toasted roll with sauerkraut and Swiss.