Friday, August 18, 2006

the luminous pork forest, the sawdust of the bacon angel


the field beside my heart is

filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog


a poem doesn’t have to have 14 perfect lines

or else you’re spitting on graves


maybe you’ll slip up and tell a truth

stick your flaking elbow into something rich


under the moon your tongue hangs out

you’d like to howl but there’s this language thing


a pile of shame grows and grows

please save my family from complication or sudden death


listen: a small movement in the linden leaves

the poem collaspes small and leaping


be brave be brave be brave


the field beside my heart is

filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog


and here’s another beautiful dog

a thousand ugly deer on the breath of the wind


sighing sighing sighing


* * *

OUTLAW REVOLUTION CAPTAIN

In the days before Marco Polo discovered the Miniature Doberman here on Planet of the Tired Clown, the Unconventional Creeps Race began at noon instead of one. I was drunk log before that playing the jigsaw snapping race with my lost woodman brother. What kind of death satin sailor sails the piping north pole with nothing but a random rabbi generator beneath his cap? I’m an impossible planet circled by the weepy noses of my dream detonators. Mice wish themselves twenty legs then begin a new life of scurrying. O foreheads of loss! At the ceremony of evocation, we’re astonished by the luminous pork forest, the sawdust of the bacon angel, he who conceals the apocalypse’s incorrigible bedhead from the braided Kayak. There is a cowlick at the centre of the radiant clown. There is the instep of tomorrow. We have the telephone.

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