The Sadness of Solitary Sheep

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Cyclops 301

The spectacle of rain hard earned by vulgar nobodies
Makes for unceasingly hollow citizens-
Motherless
Comfortless and on excursions from heaven.
(Don’t you see, your home is full of artillery of the dead?)

The progress of the week is deafening
The roaring trade of the poor is left
To the memory of the recently gone.
The order of night is maintained
And the angry day withdraws its gratitude,
Leaving its thunder to the sisters of the supernatural.

We are lent by lightning and muffled dreams
And so far from home.

Skinny Air

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Cyclops 300

A holy country, women and wife
Measures the course of waiting
In a place where ravenous brute
Tongues bloom with fear.
Drunken brothers-queer- sucking at holy
Scabs feel the knock of time and still
Long for more.

The drums of Ireland teach the word
Of bloody sainthood and angry
Pissers waiting for boots in the
Boiling crowd.

Meanwhile, a fool, an eyeless citizen
Comes round to collect the rendered fat.

Clay Eye

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Cyclops 298

The stinker’s point: in your bloody country be
A special eye
The dog that makes no excuses, has no alibi
But is honored for showing some dirty jesus
The assistant to his mistake;
Listen to his offence
Tell us where the border lies
The citizen hanged for having sight
Came round and growled at the wretched the
Private extinction the
Eaten bloom the
Point of mourning.

We wept at the hard beam
The light of heaven and left going forward
To murder the empty day.

King of No Consequence

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Cyclops 297

Greatly bloody fitter finest
Pass it playing in a field sliding
In the ocean of desire in
Peace and doing; bought yet broken.
Good Christ! You can’t dream of being here, now,
Once seen in these regions of satisfaction, can you?

Pass it by in homes of weeping
Deep streets truest duty of the wind
Again and again stopping the morning
What mind is given to this minute of matter
This quiet soul of other purest character?

Talking shouting knocking off hats in the whirlwind
You come here to beg a promise from the daughter of Wednesday
And leave empty-handed, no true landing will be allowed
No favor will be given.

If I Could Start To Fly

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Cyclops 296

Christ divided the lower fishes
And sent a dark prayer into the future
The flesh expects to be paid in luminosity
But the hands have their own spirit:
Flabbergasted, they fold and flutter
on an uncertain path back into the present
to the gentle end of certainty and possibility.

We let the waves of light call us
And pay our debts after which we
Look to the east and to home to friends
to carrying the water of relief
to evident flesh and a spirit of being
for our purest nature.

In this way we are afforded life and that
Wrong we desired in being.

If a Tree Falls

-"Every day takes figuring out all over again how to fucking live" - Calamity Jane in DEADWOOD

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Cyclops 295

All the chuckling minutes now dead and
When they died they took your letters and gods and rules with them
This morning is just a sideshow
Throwing the sun down the street
Will you find me in the pale darkness?

I saw you in the rules of a sea
That buries time
Outside the slow day
Beloved, you, the empress of what becomes
You, who knew the dawn
You, who left your ghosts in the queer dust
You, you show me something I never knew before.

Abhorrent Vacuum

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Cyclops 294

The deeds of sacred mongrels produce these images
The fate of citizens hangs in the balance
The street thirsts for the long blood of a growling god
And the Queen’s graceful toil, bruised and cunning, is as good as gone.

A fool is always left hanging
The gate of hell is lined with them
As if some excellent hand made a fire then
Sent round for a laughing boy or two
To make images of the helpless, the handless and the deathless.

Straightaway, I heard you say, on that day
When born of immortality
You walked away and became
beautiful

Ordinary Joy

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Cyclops 293

This bitter house passed by fairest travelers
Surrounded by a moat of heaven, of joy
In which rest the drowned sons of the heart.

The godlike cup of honor
Brought down to them like
Peerless fairness, left traipsing
Along the road to fortune- they now
Wither beneath the presence of war.

How is it that the blood of desire
Mixes so easily with reverent waste?
Why do your books so quickly split,
Cracked open by the sky?

Future Ghost

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Cyclops 292

That half-pint, Napoleon, seen
Through the dead eye of a dead fish
Confirmed before sinking into growling
Decrepitude. Studied at the foot of the animal master,
The street was given him before was the ground.

His poor arrival was announced by the blasted soul of the true savage
At his feet reposed the accumulated spears
Of Velasquez
Of Muhammed
Of the Rose of Killarney and Rosa Parks.

The tranquilizing blows of time
And of prudent sight nearly meet us, dearly
And so the sons of princes, the sons of bitches and the sons of the citizen
All like: eventually their poor eyes
Will turn to stone.

An Exquisite Act of Aging

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Cyclops 291
A mountain likewise feels the shape of the hero
This lark that might have easily become stitched
To antiquitiy
Hidden inside itself a smile for the
Warm ground-an earth barely formed
When goodness became obscurity.

Voice ascending
Lost in its call , tangled in the windpipes of
Irregular beasts with tearing breath
As they surround the tower

The heart aloft alone knows
What rude movement brought us to
This salty sea
To stand on the shore
amid these discarded kneeless garments
To find ourselves lost in the hero’s eye.

Please,...Don't Go. You Haven't Heard My Band Yet.*

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The Citizen Drinks

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Cyclops 289

The sun of kings is the same as the
Sun of sheep and the same sweet rains fall

On heroes and maidens. In
Brown supplied the bitter trees are singing
Drilling the earth roaring without number
Descending purpose, you now notorious
Who traverse some crystal sea
A mariner of rape and savage foliage brings

Various robbers- come like millions of silvery fishes
To pillage the graves of princes,
These descended sons
These queens of Armagh
These chunky goons made of flowers and meat
Left bleating on the shore
Daring to attempt the day.