Saturday, January 27, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
They call the dog black.
A perennial stealth that feeds
at the centre of my love's soul.
The lamb was black too
a spark eyed bounce of spirit that
fed from the joy of her hand.
We found the lamb alive
standing, leg shredded
and throat deeply torn.
The mother was already dead
flesh at centre gnawed and red.
We have not learned the colour.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Collective noun for maggots?
Smother might cover it. Or dance.
A dance of maggots.
The outlier dancers dos-à-dos
scattered about before the smother
comes on the second day.
A seething sea and by the third
the pods of squirm have melded.
The sea, a seethe of maggots.
More mutton than a Greek wedding
in the old sheep after the dogs
had dropped her tangled in the wire fence.
She was swollen whole on Thursday,
and by Friday evening
revel in deep hollows among the bones
and rags of wool.
Oddly, very little smell
after the second day.
And I wonder too,
where do all the dancers go
when the feast is over?
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Three fireside travellers
sit transfixed at
...the brittle straw of hope
'Fantasy,' says the first. And it is.
'Trap,' says the second. And it is.
"Road home,' says the third. And it is.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Sapphire Princess & SS Orcades
In '58 she was assaulted with blinding torches
stripped and beaten into razor blades
her final wake
a chevron of foam
28 Pacific days long
to the antipodes
where she bestowed the family yearnings
along with crates and baggage
of a thousand other
second chapter dreams.
Mid morning I watch them waddle from the belly
of this present decades' glamor of chandeliers
to be bussed for the two hour tinted glass
mediation of an Australian landscape
and, unfailingly back on board for lunch
to the clamor of the cheese cake buffet.
Their lady will be nudged
from her berth tonight
and stabilizer tethered
to a sea path worn
round a circuit of ports,
and the bars of a cage.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
when I first felt the urge
to shield mum & dad
so vested in their ideals
from the swearing swaggering kids I knew
from my nightmares, the crated bodies
dismembered, the incinerated infants,
from the world as it is.
Lest in their knowing
I must witness their pain.
Occasionally I still feel the same
toward other Americans.