Heavenly Host

Wants to spread your fire

drench every cell in oil for you

wash the tension from your muscles

and thoughts

wants to pour you over every cushion

and landscape

flood their vision with your abundance

and beauty

wants to hold you

in the safety of his magic

wants to crash their buildings

and monuments with wave

wants a bisexual slave

a hard amber grave

where he might

be displayed

observed

like some

prehistoric insect

trapped in time

and place

wants children to dance for

and kiss you

flowers

showers

spring growth

a brighter green

wants more strength in the seam

than the fabric itself

has a tendency to rip apart

to peel off

to scratch away

wants the glue to never dissolve

wants everything to assist

and accommodate you

currency to spend itself on you

duck fat

silk

and gold

wants vitamins and minerals

to nourish you

along with television

sex

and drugs

wants the mirror to wink back at you

smile blush

feel giddy around you

wants sensual feelings to pulse through you

your electric skin

to stand hairs on end

wants young lovers to astound you

surround you with wit and

clever narcissism

running away from home

and two dollar solipsism

wants a fine selection

of meats

to be hung

in your smokehouse

wants to delouse your body

with the hungry tongues

of mute lovers

who know only

your pleasure

Orange Buick

Not keeping strict records makes the mice fat. My grandfather used to keep small notebooks in his shirt pocket and at the return of every car trip would write down the mileage of the vehicle and brief description of various destinations – grocer, p.o. (for post office), gas, Michael – I would watch him intently and wondered if I was a destination or a passenger. Late at night I snuck into the basement and found an old box filled with these small notebooks. The box was labeled Orange Buick 1982 -1992. I flipped through the small spiral notebooks tattooed heavily with blue ink pressed deliberately into the page. I found other names and noted that that must mean passenger.

My mother’s father was a colonel in the U.S. Army and a stickler for values – an agent of morals, a Gideon in retirement – a warrior – for god, country and family – Ronald Reagan and The Republican Party – all that which has been taught as holy – unquestioning the very fabric of the foundation – a pupil, a soldier, a cog in the machine… An intelligent and loving man who did not stray from his moral path… boring, spending the last three decades watching sports on television… good little boy… adopted by his grandfather, a strict disciplinarian in a home without electricity or plumbing. Imagine that, growing up in a building without electricity or plumbing… I suppose most of the world lives in those very conditions today – but you got to go back pretty far to find that the norm in the United States. Outhouse full of shit, candles conserved in the winter and dark nights with the unconscious…