Wednesday, June 27, 2012


The clematissed sky shimmers like a
dome. The phosphorous firmament uses a
machine’s grammar, spitting missiles wet with
prayers to Jesus blessing grandma and
all the soldiers “over there” uttered
in a bunny suit, face slapped,
innocent. Warmer’s what you get with
a biased epic in your hand.
Your sentiment’s vain, for it surpasses
its goal: getting your hood back.

Surrendering seven times to the war
for the word: Good night untried
poets. Going nowhere, wee Anglo hamsters
re-publicize the ceilings of some mosque
burst open like a spinach tin,
like the condom factory, ejaculated upward
bathing a woman’s form, tripping up
Martyr’s Way, moaning and murmuring, head
aglow, awaking to that detail
you’re dead. You doubt that rose-breasted

grosbeaks form flocks, or knot then
buy the jacarandas in the loaming.
The tulip blooming like some doubled
helix tuning with precision, so sincere,
really. Vernality encrusted into a narcotic
nipple like some memo from beyond
your deployment of criti-poesy writing the
metapome, suggesting the self-reflexive surpoem espousing
a proper feeling, as numbed by
these row breaks evaporating implications. The

way drones melted kids who were
just growing up over there. We
react with loud, poignant communal sighs.
This lion would need bigger wings
than the eagle’s. Would you abandon
your poetry to make him complete?
Judge not before I incise your
eyes hunting for a muse, gaping
into who mother was, a wretched
shadow chipping into radiance. I’ll come

no closer, for this breach twain
she and he seams hallowed space,
a heather brush of carnage for
the calm of bloodied skulls and
torn limbs. Not only are you
an alleged killer, my precious far-out
poesiest, but you also stand accused
of bigotry by those on the
periphery at Darfur, to which you
counter you’re not sure. How candid,

non-denominational reflection and prayer and the
making of bombs inside the spirit-schooners
of the Sahara outside Khartoum, sans
slurs or ignorance, confer over UBUWIM
and the Warrior Poets, none of
whom were ever be-headed in Nicaragua
by Green Beret trainees called pequeno Contras,
or blessed. They would not believe
the frail could inherit the moon
(unless Newt Gingrich sent them there).

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