They’ll blow, the horns, all horns
everywhere, & once
will be enough. Once, to announce
the feast, its flesh as tender
as a flogged saint’s. His
only crime: he refused to meet The Season
head-on, would only from the side, as do sea chariots
when they menace - bathers in flight, run straight
into the arms of a gang on the beach, bikers
kneeling on sand - Let us pray - lightning hurled
from up yonder, from up there where that golden staircase
seems to end. If you’re going to climb it
climb it quickly before it’s vanquished by that thick
luxurious foliage. Luxurious, as in the phrase:
Teething nirvana or, better, Incumbent
on a soft ride where May doctors screen
autumnal scans, flowers from those
April showers: towers, or bowers? - bowers
where they’ll cower, those bathers
while they blow, the horns, all horns
everywhere - Let us pray.



It’s me, myself, no other who’s lying
on this filthy mattress in this hospital
corridor, cloudsick, humiliated
by their procedures, by the samples
that they’ve taken.
it’s me, myself, no other who has
but one intention: to make it per-
fectly clear
that my most ardent wish is to
leave as I came -
on my hands & knees, crawling.
it’s yours truly, this humble petitioner
that you see before you who will crawl,
naked, to each in turn, to each
of the mothers, to submit
to their wrath.
other who will present you, made
with my own hands, of my hair, of dirt
from under my nails, an effigy of myself
to do with as you will.
other, who’s stripped to the waist
in this dim hole, who for twelve hours each night
shovels coal into a boiler - steam
for an engine that must be, can only be
an engine of war.
me, no other, who, entering a room
that I thought was empty, finds it full
of steamer trunks & in each, as I lift
its lid, the evidence of a failed migration -
a blue snake, hibernating, oblivious
to the intoxication of my flute.
alone, hugging myself, who’s crooning
a lullaby as the ox is dismissed, as it sinks
into mist - the ox painted blue
that brought me here cradled
in its horns.
other who, coming among strangers,
can understand their language as if
it was my own, their discourse
of dead horses, of empire, of excrement
& tedium.
truly, no other, who, at the end
of a long journey, was given a tent
in this camp of cowards, who tonight
around a fire as we warm ourselves,
in gratitude, in terror, will place on the lips
of each of my comrades a kiss
of betrayal.



As within your rights to resist
the push & pull of those who insist
that you trip through a tango
like a Slavonic saint through a martyrdom
with every hair in place as you are
the slobbering kiss of a bedlamite as it’s planted
on your trembling lips - that game
you were paying with pain of no
significance now & in any case is not
the same (in the same category) as what
must surely come next - anal rape
on a flying trapeze, almost as exciting
as walking on water & guaranteed to get
the entire congregation down on its knees
howling for more as you fight
for a breathing space, for just
a few seconds out to consider
those badly bruised lips, any pause
occluded from a bedlamite having the potential
to shift the pieces to another, less
threatening configuration: mother screaming
on the stairs, father
out with the bears.



Equal gait for equal ancestors.
Not me, him
Stepping smart for a goose ruse.
Not me, him
Humping Nazi utility.
Not me, him
Whose shivering shanks suggest...
Not me, him
So perfectly established on the toilet.
Not me, him
Winking sphincter flirtation.
Not me, him
On whom the passion is bestowed.
Not me, him
With the sown body, its lights.
Not me, him
Dollied in for dolloping out.
Not me, him
On his knees for a nibble.
Not me, him
In attendance, Pepe Espanto’s Gringo Bath.
Not me, him
Suppliant with soap.
Not me, him
With what will excite.
Not me, him
Easy passage, off you go.
Not me, him
His gauntlet, hit parade, hired thugs.
Not me, him
War-spoiled, for nothing wants.
Not me, him
The epitome of abundance.
Not me, him
To mind your manners with.
Not me, him
Last supper raconteur.
Not me, him
Who’s unpalatable.

His is an evacuated face. Actually, it’s an extrajudicial face permeated with suck this immunity as a function of fraternal arcanum. In other words, it’s a face of extortion modified to suit the present political climate - slapdash. Or, to put it simply, an about face. A packed-with-lies face. A floundering in malignancy face. An orchestrated by the lowest common denominator face. A scrummed face. A face, in the final analysis, that’s down on all fours.

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