Daily Archives: April 18, 2012

Genesis And Decay

smell that love rising,
a plant coming up from the dirty dirt
breaking into sun and struggle.

it’s the medium of explosion,
the go too far,
the split a foundation,
the crack a fundamental.

it’s a whip wrench cracking
and then turning a nut
on the juggernaut wheel.

it’s a crack of narwhal horn handle
on the parasol raised
for a forgotten brilliant day.

when a god finally exists
that god is going to want this
for sacred groving.
that god is going
to go full-on backslide ape for spring fever.  
that god is going
to want love in a box for burning
on the sterling light altar
of get around.

that god will get someone to start something
and the something is going to get bigger
and the dirty dirt is going to get paved and 
struggle’s going to be big, bigger than last year.

 


No Resurrection

No
resurrection! Dead,
stay dead!  Don’t the living
do enough for you
already — follow your rules,
teach your stories,
bury and burn you good
when you’re allegedly done —
no!

No
resurrection — we don’t need you,
dead ones.  
We had enough of you
the first time, you’re dead,
and life’s truly for the living.  It’s
a glow, a ripe scent, a bright flow.
Our grief blinds us to it but
it is there — it is there, and it’s not
yours.

No to the resurrection!  

If you’re so certain
of your need to stay drunk on life
that you won’t accept death,
at least do us the favor
of starting over as something else;
don’t simply come back.  We don’t need you.
You’re becoming a bit of a bore
and it’s not too much a stretch
to say you ought to be ashamed —

someone new
could have breathed that air.

 


Carrion

early news,
lead story:
there’s been a murder
in town.

pretty woman says
these words:

carrion,

underground dance club — 

oh,

Carrion

is the suspect’s name,
not the victim’s? it’s not a description
of the aftermath?

somehow disappointed —
wanted the story to say
something about names and  
destiny,  something hard:

an underground dance club
a stabbed dead body 
a knife found
in a killer’s possession

and carrion, carrion everywhere

somehow disappointed —

where is this underground dance club?
i have a right to know 
if it’s nearby. 
a right to know
how I’ve been missing out.
i have a knife in my possession
but it didn’t kill anyone and
i would gladly trade it for a cowbell
and go dancing after hours
among the dead —

somehow disappointed — 

shit,
i wanted the news to be a poem
and instead it’s just the news.
dead meat in the dirt
outside the club.  
someone under
arrest. nothing else to say
about that.  i’m no poet,
not this early.