All Your Pretty Ones

All the gangsters live in God's pretty plackets
one hundred blocks away from each shallow pocket
spitting sea foam, lamb blood and grey hair.

[I'm too shy so they pare me with a steak knife.]

Jesus Christ, who tore me my liver spots
and pigeon-shat years as a matter of propriety
on all our heads? Wouldn't you believe
enough kittens are wrapped in Your body-cement?

Please, Miss Sexton, sing your love songs
blow your horn under the old wood, and rise!
Rise, my baby, from your pinewood
spread from the dread.

Inspiration Caught in the Throat of a Murdered Muse

The funeral is scheduled,
expecting low attendance,
because the death was a (hush hush) secret
except in the back rooms and beauty parlors.

How would Gandhi have handled this?
Gently, I suppose.
Someone should have the guts
to hang their violence up for display.
We are deconstructionists by nature.
(Nurture, nothing. We are raised
by wolves.)

There had to be instructions
to clean up the mess. I can't
imagine such force was necessary.
Muses don't put up much of a fight -
generally speaking.

God, I think they just resolved
to paint the walls
and the floor
and the everything;
still pieces clinging beneath
the color.
(It was a lovely choice.)