Muezzins
Trying to tame my wildness
my hair’s askew
my hair’s on fire
my wildness is up to no good.
In the Zoo Shop there are
10,000 parakeets,
each one of them happy
as fuck.
I knocked on Death’s door and
Death ran away,
I thumped on Death’s door like
thumping a melon to see if
it was ripe yet.
My wildness is on fire
my mind is the muezzins’.
Waystations
I feel so candid in my naked body
sitting here on the couch with a
towel under my ass
with the man tits I fought so
hard against
just like my mother trying to
rid herself of her little
potbelly,
using bogus products she bought
for $9.99.
Finally she gave up,
she’d rest her hands on her
little potbelly and eat buttered
Pop-Tarts, slumped down
on the couch.
A couch, a TV, waystations.
Demurely, I’ve drawn the
curtains
but the naked light bulb’s
blazing
I want to throw open the curtains
and appall the night.
It’s 2 am, the city’s timid.
Railyard
The night’s a railroad track, the moon’s a train, and all the rest is ash.
The dark matter of the universe is just ash and cinders,
something enormous was burnt, maybe the body of God,
sacrificing himself in the act of creation.
And everything’s still unfinished, in disarray,
the Kuiper belt, for example, which is maybe hiding the
real solar system with a better Earth in it,
this one’s only a rough draft.
The night’s slivers, spars, spurs of a railroad,
the rails look like silver hissing serpents’ tongues.
Ore cars parked on a siding, a cashiered old
passenger car, an old dining car still coupled,
going fusty and musty, like a man and wife rotting in the grave together.
Maybe from the chaos of the railyard a train will
gather into one long thing and start
rolling through the night, thrumming rhythmically,
rocking gently side to side, carrying everybody home.