The Blue Bizarre

For the woman who photographed
God in a most determined way.

Terrible trees climb out of the blue bizarre.
We arrange their evergreen leaves with heat
to twist patiently the winds from one peculiar
motion as up swell draws kites and downdraft
leans on the broken arms of truck drivers
dreaming of that chance to win one more

race. Ambition is sexy they say.

 

Wild Trees pushed by a woman with
one-arm raises the speculation about
divinity and the existence of God higher
on the food chain and of course blessed
by sex. We would fuck in silence
if we could get away with a steady stream
of cum on the mantle. Woman in dark eyes
and graceful impresses my arranged lines

to her breasts and shakes sex out

on to the street without hesitation.

Drunk the lead guitar smashes his weapon
on the curb and arrested pleads no contest
when he learns how Live Oak paid for his entry. 

 

My Lover draws innocent arrangements
promised to protect frail spirits
when thighs meet vulva and pricks,
stolid, decline with credit cards
waiting to talk to God about debt. 

In the whorehouse we rushed
into the full ass and wet vagina to
the applause of a fabricated audience.
They paid their lives to undermine
sidewalks cracked with chalk drawn
monsters between the eyes and ears
of grand trees one hundred year old.
We roll daylight out every day to
defend boredom and fix roots filled
at last by the unbeatable preaching
of sons calling out fathers who pretend. 

 

The last night of the first day began with
spiritual concordance. We Live Oak
rush flight as plowed roots upend city
strafing the storm leaves to weep
and break back scratching known
cheek to graceful stance after love.

If you stood on one foot, you might ascend
where the great star elms broke gloom.

Nature dries on our sleeves as ice pickled
with the sore poison of a fettered estuary
the sea having failed again, but she pulls
at the stem of the land and draws out
the great arms to know the strength rigor
reviewed as a four star event without lies.

I am hungry. It is time to open the storeroom
and feed the multitudes their fair portions.

Challah braids disclose hidden Sabbath
and a revised order of service with posted
hymns dressed easily in gold paint drawn
on the wood to appear older and darker.
We will do anything to increase attendance.
The righteous have that responsibility, and
we fail, as there are too many exceptions
to rules evident belief draws in sandy soil.

Every Godfather and every Vietnam hero
lines up to testify as religion demands.
We did that guilty trick then and do it now
to protect some disreputable river now dry. 

What are the natural lies culture rips
from sawdust when trees fall upon strings
of cars arranged in a great parking lot
after the hurricane killed vision to open
its own metallic plastic coffin and irony
always has the last word before Genesis.

 

October 17/18 2006