Post 'em up here, O Poetical Ones
Here's two to start us off:
The Varieties of Religious Experience in Piñon New Mexico
1. Moma Mobly Muñoz' watermelon buttocks
plump three sizes on the pew, though few
have noticed since her knee-length dreadlocks
block the view; they attribute her tattoo
with plumping up her voodoo hammocks.
2. Silvio Rodriguez' dog declares in Greek
and Aramaic, although he slurs his vowels,
lisps his "s" sounds to a sibilating peak,
and drools his phi's and beta's with his growls,
lifts his leg and pees, then offers philological critique.
3. Father Juarez shot his wad of visions poking
Sister Santiago in the rectory with prejudice unholy,
a gallon jug of Gallo, a joint that he'd been smoking,
and his handy rosary he'd kindly dipped in guacamole,
blessed beforehand and thus not sin-provoking.
4. And God Himself is often just a wild coyote,
manged and limping out behind the General Store,
eating gobs of fat and moldy tacos, a peyote
button, and a handy rat or two, likes to bite the whore
for kicks, then blesses her like Don Quixote.
Return of the Magus
I came back past mill and creek, having slept
with spiders in the womb of a shotgun shack. A light shines
out of a single house-eye to the hunched back
of a stand of pine. I smell her body
as I climb the steps,
crest the landing and birth myself into the room
like a maggot from its egg. She's laid atop the bed as I left her,
bathed in a blood-syrup stench and sculpted whole with clumsy knives
that I flung when my skin peeled back.
I trundle and bob: too heavy to fly, yet too light to sink below
the surface. And I see what brought me hovering back:
a tuft of feather-fur clenched in her fist.
I collect her, toss aside her rags, stagger down stairs
through the open door, and out to moonless sky,
as unforgiving as the last glimpse of an owl's belly.
Where the hemlocks squat,
I bury my burden under the sternum of an elk,
and shall starve in this cove of wolves as I listen for my keep's
resurgent bones.
My torn ear gentle against a rib:
the only sounds are insects preening under leaves.
************
Here's two to start us off:
The Varieties of Religious Experience in Piñon New Mexico
1. Moma Mobly Muñoz' watermelon buttocks
plump three sizes on the pew, though few
have noticed since her knee-length dreadlocks
block the view; they attribute her tattoo
with plumping up her voodoo hammocks.
2. Silvio Rodriguez' dog declares in Greek
and Aramaic, although he slurs his vowels,
lisps his "s" sounds to a sibilating peak,
and drools his phi's and beta's with his growls,
lifts his leg and pees, then offers philological critique.
3. Father Juarez shot his wad of visions poking
Sister Santiago in the rectory with prejudice unholy,
a gallon jug of Gallo, a joint that he'd been smoking,
and his handy rosary he'd kindly dipped in guacamole,
blessed beforehand and thus not sin-provoking.
4. And God Himself is often just a wild coyote,
manged and limping out behind the General Store,
eating gobs of fat and moldy tacos, a peyote
button, and a handy rat or two, likes to bite the whore
for kicks, then blesses her like Don Quixote.
Return of the Magus
I came back past mill and creek, having slept
with spiders in the womb of a shotgun shack. A light shines
out of a single house-eye to the hunched back
of a stand of pine. I smell her body
as I climb the steps,
crest the landing and birth myself into the room
like a maggot from its egg. She's laid atop the bed as I left her,
bathed in a blood-syrup stench and sculpted whole with clumsy knives
that I flung when my skin peeled back.
I trundle and bob: too heavy to fly, yet too light to sink below
the surface. And I see what brought me hovering back:
a tuft of feather-fur clenched in her fist.
I collect her, toss aside her rags, stagger down stairs
through the open door, and out to moonless sky,
as unforgiving as the last glimpse of an owl's belly.
Where the hemlocks squat,
I bury my burden under the sternum of an elk,
and shall starve in this cove of wolves as I listen for my keep's
resurgent bones.
My torn ear gentle against a rib:
the only sounds are insects preening under leaves.
************
