One a Day Rides Again
Wood is as indifferent as love to human
emotions, whether feeding the fire, reaching
for the sky, or poking its nose
where it isn’t wanted by Puritan
deliberation—that altarboy instinct of the
hypocrite for sacramental wine,
Mary Jane’s buds, or the forbidden
fruit, handmaiden to the love
of old Saint Pete, clandestine
shoving match of a turd from
one anal cavity to another—
and thus One A Day steps in, drunk
as a lord to greet condemnation; Mae
West on his arm in glory to the highest
titters in her feather boa and puts
mettle to her petals, sending that dummy
some cue from her belly he’s all too
happy to receive, being pleased
to please: “A little bit lower to the
left;” of course he gets to a point where
bees write their own laws
of pollination, ignoring Pope
Pius gesturing in the background
like Moses at the backwash of the Red
Sea—inattention he can stand less
than abomination—and as inquisitors
rush in to show them the door,
Dummy looks up to find Mae alert
and sending furiously, “How are they
gonna stop people from putting
holes in the wall?”
Setting bells
ringing in the bellfry like vampire
bats from the hump of Quasimodo
in a gypsy heat—
stirring up the fear,
disappearing in the dawn
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