Dog them early while the scent of their sulfur builds.
Maze the rules you make them play by until loopholes become jaws.
Stack them where they belong till God approves of the height of the pile.
Open their prison doors and pour on lingering fame.
Approve their paroles with a voice full of long chains.
Denounce them at the whiff of impure thought.
Relegate their romances to the dustbin of hysteria.
Imagine their lifestyles as moldy bread.
Bite mincing mouthfuls from them till they spit back.
Reject their strapping response to infractions.
Blow them rat kisses.
Darken their doorsteps.
Assume their compulsion if you have it not.
Burn their books.
Own them.
Remove them from their lands.
Speak of universal love only when they aren’t there to hear.
Steal their women for a cabaret of night monkey wars.
Splay their men’s genitals upon a flea market blanket.
Drown their children in salt.
Rend their garments.
Bruise their heels.
Bivouac where they pray.
Infiltrate them when they make their own worlds.
Imitate them.
Give them names to conceal the names with which they were born.
Carry a sponge to sop their servant blood from your white loins.
Blacken their teeth until yours are moonlike in comparison.
Honor them with caricatures while you shred their portraits.
Play their music in your nurseries.
Wear their feathered robes while you drop their bastardized secrets on the tiles of your temple.
Cut off their water.
Tell them the righteous can live on dew alone.
Suck their grass dry and watch the edges get crisp in the bright daylight you have made from their smiles.
Let your mercy rain down upon them as a mighty river.

“If there was a way
to be sure he’ll never find us, I’d feel better
about all this,” she said to me
as she tied a ribbon onto her daughter’s present,
evening the ends
and taking scissors to them to curl them
so they lofted, just a bit,
and bounced when she let them go.

When our backs were turned
the ribbons gave one languid flap
and the box
rose and

soared around the room, not quickly
but deliberately, moving among
the scattered boxes, avoiding the just-placed
new knick-knacks that were much the same
as the old, broken ones she’d left behind
on the night she raised the little girl from bed
and took the two of them away from
the ruins.

It hovered by each
unmarked wall, blessed
the unlisted phone for a moment
with a near-kiss, slipped off to the bedroom
and drifted over their clean beds.

“I wish
I knew something about hope —
how to find it, how to make it stay
for more than an odd breath,”
she said with one hand out
gesturing at the new walls, new TV, new
shelves, and not a fist in sight.

She looked down at the present
(suddenly back in its place
with its travels undiscovered)
with its floating ribbons and perfect creases,
and smiled
for the first time that day. “She’s gonna love
that, I know. It’s nothing big, but she’ll love it.”
She brushed back the hair
from her bruised cheek.

The box — was it a trick
of the light? — the box shook a little,
its wrapping rustling.

A little obvious, but I’m working toward something else — this is just a first step.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1. on the radio

hit me baby one more time

we are willing it
willing to hear it
and claim it means something else

hit me

baby
me, she says
powder me wrong
glue me back together
delicately under the spell
of apology

no go

me baby

one of the many who owned
the record just slipped away

baby one

more and more
we open our hearts
as much as we close our eyes
to how easily this happens
how often do we miss it

one more

time? not likely
how many every
minute
hour
day
fall and no one says a thing
where are the songs they didn’t sing
and what were they hearing when the door
opened for the last time

more time?

not likely: when he moved toward
his place in the books
he was counting on this being the final act

hit me baby one more time

because he knows schoolgirls
are nicest when they’re naughty
and bad girls don’t go to heaven
bad girls just go
and
they’ve got their own
soundtrack

remember how I used to have really long hair? With a ponytail down past my shoulders?

Yeah, that was kinda fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New piece.

Collusion

I know a lot of people around here
and if I thought they’d believe me
I would tell them the black story of how

you did so little to save me
how you pushed and shoved past me
to get your ass out the door to where

he was waiting to take advantage of the time
and the circumstances to make
sympathy his bitch and where

she stood next to him with her finger
in the corner of her mouth and pretended
to care what was happening right in front of her as

we tangled our way past the cameras
I know are there people out there who would notice
the way we fell down the steps cradling each other as we fought but not

you, oh no, all of you who
stood there watching with your whistles and graveyards
and stared at the impossible blue of the sky while

they let us nearly bleed to death in front of the whole
stinking town and now the newspapers might as well write it up
as an example of how low everyone’s fallen when no one steps in

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And for Cowboy and the rest of the gang:

Cleansing The Undermeats

Uncle Justin
was in trouble: his sister had asked him
to watch the kids and make sure they got lunch but
his famous spinach and artichoke dip
ran out early so he called for back up from
the guy he liked to call “the
corner store.”

As soon as the “groceries” appeared
he delivered a mighty “harrumph” and departed
to his room to relive his favorite daydream
for the thousandth time this week: imagine
being forced to cleanse the undermeats
in a public shower in front of
the Grateful Dead and their legions!

“Harrumph!”

Enough mushrooms
can make even the soapiest junk
beautiful, he thought. He was certain
that Jerry would be proud of him
if he weren’t already dead,
and for real this time.

Even after his sister got home
and found the kids painted with spinach
and chowing Fruit Loops dry while “Europe ’72”
blared in the basement and the endless tour
trucked merrily through the house, Justin
kept the faith: Nothing to do but smile, smile,
smile!

And so, kids, the moral of the story
of Uncle Justin, his fabulous
(and spotless) undermeats, and
the adventure
of the spinach and mushroom afternoon, is this:

the Grateful Dead suck.

— trust me, you just had to be there