Garden Noises
Life nowadays is trash, nothing so
dirty as blood, no, the yellow moon
in the fig tree sullen, the aluminum
planets rusted. The flea, only
innocent for an hour, is a hitchhiker
dangerously composed, as if barely
moving, but still an angel not disabled
completely, crouched with dignity
on the reddening turnip, as the sun
at nightfall questions every friendless
fire in every permanent house save
that which is painted by the peacock’s voice.
The Lord I Did Not Want
With a tin gun I shot God into pieces,
nothing better to do, ha ha! I was
pleased. Miracle Products to keep me
thundering. Young grasshopper full of fizz
and mulberry, I always been knocked out
by the down and dark, and I had the peculiar
fortune to go off. I’m poisonous, I be
thinking when feeling like the Almighty,
pistol spitting up beautiful seed,
a thimbleful of wrath. Come one, come all,
I make a buzzard’s speech in the keyhole
of the stomach. Something else I recognized
on account of my armed forces. Easy
to click, bang, sing if you hold your breath.
