Saturday, July 4, 2009


A murderer is discovered at
The funeral of god where some love is transferred like
Odd weapons passed amongst the thieves.
Unbuttoned and soapless they fire
A single volley skyward becoming plumes of white heaven
Which responds by pressing downward on all
Present. To meet outrage with requiem is to catch
Them all with their pants down
-Whereupon they proceed straight to hell, in a handbasket.
Once there, they make cakes of dog’s legs
And partake of the hair from the one that bit ‘em,
Taking care not to tread nor to toil in any garden
Where mute fragments might lie, unweeded.

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