DUBHE

Erato tangled in a mop
of kelp, all verdant things

desiccated by the yellow eye
of my rage: I am my mother's

arms when I hold my mace.
Portents, the things you will see

thru each of my 7 flames, Jean
Genie of the opened gate,

limbs of anesthesia & stagnant black
bile: how to say this, again,

automatically? This is a story
about a can & a machete,

or was it an organ grinder? Are you
going to eat that? I wouldn't

eat that for all the cantaloupe
in Brigadoon. I'm headlit so you

please explain what it is that's pulling
my leg, an offhand remark

is a burning spear. (Something
here about writing poems.) Or else

nostalgia's not class
warfare:

A white dwarf & a brown dwarf
& a very large budget. I know

where to fly my pink fuselage,
I gots a necklace

of heads in a courier bag.
Scrabble, fucking & other ignoble

pursuits. Why can't I be
a skywriter? Because

these words
won't go away. Comrade,

I'll build you a kiosk, but don't
look because it's made of apostrophes & spit.