METAMORPHIC
My face : my soul : my gift : my fact
is nonetheless not less false than
my mask : my veil : my lifts : my act
Identitity is conditioned
by place ; by role : by circumstance
And yet : which we am I today?
Our sentinels : may be : rebels
and our surgeons : our assassins.
Whore : or Saint : may be in fashion,
the Hero : or The Disabled.
I will be one : or another
which my moment will discover.
SWASTIKAS? WHERE? WHICH ONES?
“I hide here in my private cellar
Ich bin der hellenkeller”
Banners flapping in he wind: my ears at half-mast,
ever banned from hearing the world’s sighs.
SWASTIKAS? WHERE? WHICH ONES?
“i hide here n my private cellar
Ich bin der hellenkeller.”
Banners flapping in the wind: my ears at hal-fast,
ever banned from hearing the world’s sighs,
they do make handy pegs though in this square boxed earth
To perch my lead spectacles upon
To keep all the winds off my eyes,
To keep out all the brightest lights,
To keep my fingers finallly free,
two fingers clutching my testicles,
Ywo fingers pinching my penis closed,
Right thumb a-plugging my anus,
Left hand chain-linked across my mouth, across nose
Too keep the breath of wind inside,
To keep from any reaching out
Of hands or brath or sound or mind
Into this our spectacle of hope or rage.
ROOTEDNESS
Some of us are rocket,
some are rock–
so how is stone decided?
by heat,
By pressure,
dissolution,
change.
How then re-assembled?ignited?launched?
By direction/determination? Or what?
Some of us are burden, some are bird:
Who imposes liberty?
Need we clothe our us in armor?
” ” ” ” ” In chains?
Or disinvest safety altogether?
Do we judge pacifists
from their fists?
(Some would suggest a scalpel….
–our natures won’t alter even with chainsaws.)
But when clenched missiles powder the earth
and massy skies bring eagles down,
I see us: spots in the carnage:
O carnations.
WE WAKE AT DAWN
with flamingo and parakeet.
they pave the path with pink
and peach but pause their way
to sip the dew
(your eyes blink and flash in the dark,
a pair of stars lost in their ark, still waiting
for the sky to blue, to fill our desert with manna)
lured by the hue of banana and an excitement
for the new, the gibbon gentle golden ape
is first to make the grand escape through
the gates of the day’s black zoo (–and the timid
constellations retreat to tomorrow’s stations–)
and tiger torch in hot pursuit —
BAIKAL HAIKU
Your face is wrinkled,
my haven, my love, my lake,
but your soul is deep.
Once, practiced anglers,
burdened with tackle and bait,
surrendered their sleep.
Being fish-fingered,
they just foundered in your wake,
floundered on your beach.
I’m a star-drinker
who had no trophy to take
but was yours to keep.