Jan 4, 2005

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.



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