Saturday, November 15, 2014


Where the cops' shadows had fallen in my garden

when they took her to hell from heroin's heaven,

needle still wet and warm like her other hunger,

their grim silhouettes seared and shrivelled seed and shoot;

even weeds withered, and where they had touched the trees's limbs

gall and canker writhed and gnarled. Their maggot fingers

squirmed obscenities on angry resisting flesh,

while turd-dark glasses wiggled like wings on night's bats

sucking out what in humans would have been their eyes.

Their voices like vomit, their feet like rabid rats

savaged the bewildered grass.

Pain's language softens as spirit's scars harden.

Later, when I wept there, coward with clenched fists,

clenched fists now where once a silent coward stood,

oh, Christ, my raining tears wombed the wounded earth,

seeds shuddered and seedlings sieved the salined soil.

Burst forth in time and sun a riot of bloom,

a bees' carnival of pistil and petal,

a breeze-busied canvas of perfumes and hues,

bouquets galore, bouquets for the days we use

flowers for the heart's adjectives, for hearts' hopes--

and, yes, even for cops' graves.


Some of my women hide their stupidity by silently taking their clothes off;

because if they start to converse and inquire, I always quite quickly doze off.

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