GETTING YOUR HOOD BACK

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).