Exile Years

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Cyclops 332

Hungry power must liberate the word
The jest-like buying of wonder
Well, there you go, making
All this frightening noise like
You have the eye and you know
But I have seen you delivered
Contaminated in homicide and blessed
In blood, lying through your teeth
While telling me to have charity.

Citizen pissers, these grey things
Children, really, now blind always many misgiven
Acts in the country of bones- no neighbors
Will approach- the road is old and broken.
Still, we are born together in this sea of suspects all
Waiting to convert,
Acolytes outside the window glass
Half-men,
Half-birds,
Half-assed.

For Lloyd Blankfein

There's Nothing At the End of the Rainbow

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Cyclops 331

The messiah is defrauded- his
Namesake answers for the offense
Poisoned allegations, recriminations and redeemed saints
Are waiting to be born
Waiting on an island where want
Is spoken and names are only plans
Made according to the needs of this pleasant country.
Or that one…

What new, exciting redemption still waits
Saddled upon its jolly alligator?
Ought not the state say when the sage
Arrives in happy hell?

The fact is made- the Roman, the gentile,
That last speaker of all love with
Only himself to blame with
Only his offenses to believe in

At last

Sidereal Messenger

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Cyclops 330

Wise Peter, he goes the distance
Second of the king
The poisoned goat knocked over
Just for show but now the master comes forth
And demands a bauble to pass on this road
A steed, a king a fellow named traveler
Who keeps the castle keep well within him

The promise of burning wanting for mercy
Looks easy to the country where fellow dogs
Are paid in acid and fruit
Where the bagman takes out his eye
And checks into a hotel
Making a den
A party
A cry

A place of fasting
A place of instantaneous fraud

Bridges and Fences

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Cyclops 329

A dark mind an idea the
Never ever ending hundred thoughts
The crap that fills my nation the frightened and angry
Citizens who gather at the casement
Who wave the flag and fill their wives
With industrial license they get
What they deserve, a
A rubber horse and a gallon blood.

Their flabbyasses and blind children
They have no name but will take
Whatever they are given
And let themselves be led into the
Yard for flogging until they
Confess and trade religions
Filled with jesus gone to Ireland
Blazing telling gathered in the sickroom
Of the nation, crazed and speaking about some plan
Swindling the only faithful while the rest of us
Go down the tubes.

Will you know me when I am gone?

Empire

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Cyclops 328

Some whistle
Some paraphernalia of god
Surnamed gentalia visiting the
Hilarious tabernacle its dearest
Possession: the skull of Mary bought
From a Zulu chief whose chief interest
Was the illuminated word of the dust, the long
Wet text of his cannon
Aimed squarely at the world

The factory of executions
Making widowers of the men
Surnamed secret dearest lord
Flips through volumes it cannot afford
Accepting applause that is not its own
But for citizens of excess
excess
excess
succeeding
To be swallowed whole
By the dominion of yesterday.

Hauling Buddha Down the Hill

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Cyclops 327

What turnedin eye hinders love?
Manpersons love hatred
Justice,
Old, standing
Receives the new Jerusalem
Opposite the elephant that good god
Makes song of
Opposite the reality that everybody
Here for only the moment
An insult to immortality
A picture hurled into eternity
An injustice collapses the meaning
A pattern of dead faces standing
At the end of a gun
The force of fair slavery is off on its bike.

The Morning Dog

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Cyclops 326

Shove us into legendary times
Take us to the dead castle of golden words
Plunder our holes
Lead us to the beautiful waters of sorrow
Where the ark is landed on the bank
And part of a scene in which the
Drinking fingers depart the holocaust, two-by-two
And find their way into the world.

Show us the evangelist’s concern for the horror of race
And burnt figure of the moon, lovingly rendered and depicted
By a picture in the devil’s waiting room
Our moment robbed by fantasy
And lost in the field of wrath but dimly
Remembered in an instant of richly hated history
Being carried forward as an art, the scepter of time.