Sweet seventeen and rising
Look down, it's holey ground
Legions of discarded shells
Marching for the sky, then
Left, giving trees a new skin
Empty replicas of newly winged
Angels or maybe drunken aliens
With zero time to learn to fly
They've got pressing business
If you know what I mean
Wink wink nudge nudge bug sex
And is it anything to sing about?
Just listen to the choir of millions
As the ladies drop leaves like veils
To add to the carpet of husks
And corpses and living bodies
Leaves coated with the eggs
Whose inhabitants will burrow
Down deep, preparing to return
In the alien invasion of 2038
King Rupert the Gnome
In his green, woodsy home
Was the monarch of everything
He would survey
And in his largest room
Was a stately old shroom
That was regal as heck
All his people would say
So King Rupert the Gnome
Sat on his fungal throne
Holding court in the forest
Each beautiful day
Til his seat was recut
In the shape of his butt
But it looked just as fine
In a comfortable way
Paricutin Cathedral – Photo credit: Daniel Tapia. Some rights reserved.
In 1943, two Mexican towns were consumed by a sudden yet gradual volcanic eruption. All of the townspeople’s lives were spared, together with most of the nearby cathedral.
Lord of Miracles
Nevertheless,
the north tower thrusts toward heaven
a gnarled and knobby index finger
jabbing, accusing,
hissing, “You did not lay me low.
Oh, you tried,
on the day you wrapped your
gentle, burning arms
around my brother and me.
You reached up, and you held me,
and you pulled my stone
toward yours,
yet still I stand.”
Its sibling to the south says nothing,
its throat and mouth having plunged
to mingle with the jagged tumble
of dark lava-rock
surrounding and permeating
the cathedral that was,
the sacred place that is,
sixty-five years after
God’s hot embrace.
Behind those brothers –
one tall, one reduced
to stubby fingers reaching up,
an open hand to receive the gifts
of the sky – is the chapel
with three walls and no top.
It too is ready
to accept heaven’s favors
even if they descend from above
as a slow avalanche of fire.
Pilgrims fill the chapel –
seekers dressed in yellow and red,
in green as vibrant as the brush
that ekes out life upon this
snaggy, igneous landscape.
They come for the icon enshrined within –
el Señor de los Milagros.
And were there ever miracles here?
Was it love that was raining down
when the people of two towns
lost their homes,
yet thanks to the slow tenderness
of God’s scorching grasp,
not a single soul lost her life?
El Señor hangs upon his tree –
the ruin at which he eventually arrived –
as the women who loved him weep.
He seems to gaze upward
at the similar cross
that sits proudly atop the northern spire.
In the late afternoon sun
the tower’s stone and brick skin is black
and brown, tan and red like flame,
like human flesh.
She was up now. On the wall. Week on week, year on year she had paced and paced and paced down there. Below. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go but up. And up she went from her puny little water pool like a striking cottonmouth snake. Higher than they thought she could go. Up. On the wall.
And now, out. But not far. No, not far, not yet. First, she had some scores to settle. Starting with that skinny little toothpick man that thought he could tease a tigress….
i wish i could relax
belinda brooded
damn! her day
had been
l e v i a t h a n
(just vast and twisted)
and the truth was
it had left her
curled contorted
tangled up
in knots
and kinks
and whorls
what would help
me to unwind?
(she mused)
(besides
a glass of wine)
could be a flick
like this:
(she flicked
her tongue
and snickered)
but what’s
my mood?
my wish?
my bent?
my whim?
what movie will
most move me?
as belinda browsed
her choices
she was
bothered
vexed
perplexed
jurassic park's
inspiring but
i don't think i've
the mettle for a
monster movie
(i see freakish
monkeys
every day)
snakes
on a plane
is merry mirth
a pick-me-up!
(too bad i never
purchased it
oh well)
one thing
i'm sure of
is i am
no fan of
indiana
jones
(ss sss!)
mm hmm
do you
know what?
i think I'll
quit this quest
i’d rather just
curl up and
read a
book
The truth? She was bone-weary
For the work of Death is ceaseless
Nonetheless she does take breaks
(Everybody needs some downtime
Now and then)
On the border of the wood
She found a deer skull
Sun-bleached, gleaming white
She bent, and picked it up
Remembering well the one who’d owned it
But then she stared, almost forgetting
The soft gaze of that gentle doe
Death was transfixed
By the delicate lattice of bone
Stretching like lace
Between its eyes
And where some unknown incident
Had chopped off the front of the skull
Graceful spirals of paper-white
Could be seen
In the nasal passage
Death smiled
And placed the skull gently
On a nearby stump
Next to a tiny heap
Of orangey-brown leaves
Now
Whispered Death to herself
Maybe someone will see
This dead deer
Resting on a dead tree
Garnished by dead leaves
And think
For a moment
Of me
And perhaps that witness
Will say, ah
Death is cruel
But she is also beautiful
