Saturday, May 30, 2009

Pais los Enterradores

Jupiter is greatly mistaken if
it resigns this picnic in favor of all
the little fish.
In the name of all god's crumbs
what is this voice that refuses
dying instead of the already dead?
Here, now, life begins and with
eyes are how the never live
become the quick, the selfish.
One day evil learned language
and this eye turned to dust.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

The Plight of the Flightless

the drunken bloom in mourning stinks
of business and ruin
the air hangs in lumps
about lithe young men beginning to slide
into the morning.
the bloody crowd clatters across a Sunday
all rampaging in catastrophic name only
the blessed track which lifts joyously the fear of the
Eyes waltz in heads
containing false profits
the disease is always worse than the cure
in early light stands an angry word
in the shape of a man on a darkened bridge.
Something sold drops into the depths below.
For Vic Haboush- 1924-2009

Sunday, May 24, 2009


The vacant corpse
produces an opportunity
for thanks
as if it were dealing with
the cleaning woman.
the wash-job walking
is a fine old custom
seriously entering power through
the way of the head
un-covered as though unholy
we are all here now
we are asked then nailed
to the wheels of stars
some job it was to
wake to to the sound of stowing
hope ajar but now
a door slowly closing

Wednesday, May 20, 2009


How to catch the eye:
walking on hands
reminds one of minarets
cheerful, now
cleanly passing over
a gate,
a stream,
like a heatwave
like a wheel
cracking a dark limb to celebrate the
coming of out of Egypt,
some must perish
that others may leave
In America,
Freedom is most often embezzled.

Saturday, May 16, 2009


Wait wants to see if we
will lose our hair
wait the hand that
tightens its grip on
the pleated pages
Wait til you say the word yellow
hello and wait
long the scalp rises in fever as
the eyes have it running
in tighter circles until
it arrives at a neat stopping place
and waits.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

We Are Such Stuff

I turned my back
To the lasting skin of everything
Of dirt and perfume and everything
due these glum pleasures.
Lethargy poisons certainty like
cleverness lost in a lifetime of night.
An old queen steeped in a mountain of teeth
Delicate pity page after page
Looking up and waiting
For the philosophy of yes to move in and
Organize the funeral of thinking.

Monday, May 11, 2009

An Empty Morning Sky

Discreetly blessed the past masses
the women the weeds the widows in mourning
covered in the lotion of theology
restrained and restraining god
this mixed witness this power this
moment farther before a spirit
dipped in holy water the tide
the rarely used fault behind
the quarter moon the wicked wander
the world in exaltation
of all that remained in answer
never excuse the time
the whole found hole untidy
but time is too heavy to stir.
southward to the funeral
southward to the empty morning sky.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Hill Dweller

Bloom the great weapon of punishment
glutton for penance shining music like light
the dropping of pins distracts us from the morning opera
about the destruction of kisses amongst the dying clockwork.
Still, the kneeling eunuch is made an example of
naked but for his rising hat
chanting for his empty phallus dead in
his long hand.
looking down on the excuse of cards
the shame of failure the fall from grace the
curious voice of the long-forgotten bone.
The gospel is art and the confession,
the sin.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Quis Est Homo?


The flesh tells it all:
Bless the curious with a voice
That thrills priests in repentance hats.
Slightly immaculate mother , her spouse,
Ringing , chanting the bass thickening
Punish me with the gospel of ChaChaCha
Then bless my knees kneeling bent
Strong yet bitching
Keeping regular hours
Worry the quiet altar smoking
The priestess weapon catches the bone
And beats back the question:
Quis est homo?

Ecce Homo!

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Buddha Stuka

There is a burning Buddha
who wonders in musical hats
the blurt the swallow the opiate
that fascinates
A sacred swingdoor
exposes a drop of the
blind masked corpse
still, our god is
lying sweating in a
latin museum nursing his matzoh and
committing unspeakable acts with
his crown of thorns.