is published by
no gentleman with
the stink of his sweat
and flatulent guts,
not pausing to dry
his boots on the mat
of a metaphor,
he tramples the nerves,
squats down in the mind,
picking the bones of
courage and honor.
A Rage for Order for Rose
From my back porch I’m watching God’s housekeeping
And think you wouldn’t want Him in your house:
No Lordy! Like them mens, no good at sweeping,
And look, just will you, all those leaves fly loose!
That great big broom God makes those old fall winds with
Like He ain’t thought about nobody’s yard.
Those clouds! Not fit to dry your hands with,
No wonder you could slap a tree trunk hard!
And, say, don’t tell you how God wastes some comet,
And spends a million years on one amoeba
When you could, —Lord, have mercy ain’t no limit—
You go and close your window—just how He be.
And now, be-hold! God gets Hisself a few
Dobabs all throwed around
and dear like you.
walked off and left me
just like any no-good man.
He left my thoughts,
so many little bare-assed kids
gawking at one another
up in my attic,
this creaky old house full of night noises.
You ever see that bastard,
you tell him he won’t find a love
good as mine.
What Really Happens
We are the cat who worries time away,
tossing it hither, thunk, and thither, thwack,
tail twitching, while between its paws its prey
flops back and forth and back
until the feline master of the house,
with time, poor thing routinely mauled to sweeten
monotony, forgets that time’s the mouse
that kills in being eaten.