The Love Song of Bob Dole
& "The Greatest Generation"
"I was shy and tender...."
Allen Ginsberg's "You Know What I'm Saying?"
ashes to ashes, dicks to dust
it takes a pill to stoke our lust
& even if Libby gets skin like leather
all us old farts stick together
we fought the war again' the Nazi
and even beat the goddam Japanee
so we could wear coats made of pleather
that's why us old farts stick together
bald old heads & baggy old skin
cancerous prostate & saggy chin
wearing Ben-Gay in hot sticky weather
makes us old farts stick together
& when we go to His throne on Judgement Day
we'll all be singin' "i did it my waayyy...."
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
The Earl of Sandwich is a Glistening God
The Earl of Sandwich is a Glistening God
"We're in too deep...."
Jorie Graham's "Prayer"
I met two salmon once
in a motel room near Troy, Nebraska--
glimmering and slippery they were,
as tasty as the finest eels, brown and golden
in a frying pan.
The first lay upside down & backwards, while the other
stood beside the bed--patiently waiting--quick & glittering
from the wetness of my mind, where it had dipped into
and found my secret (as I knelt on the bed in prayer):
I have this great emptiness, deep within me,
which needs to be filled.
Nothing else matters.
They were not endangered, not by me at least;
I had never killed anything that way
(except perhaps that time I morally
wounded a dwarf mongoose in Rhode Island,
and I gagged once on an albino python in Montreal)
I hold within so many things--
one size fits all, but I am not unquenchable.
Plunging upwards, the upturned salmon swam against the stream
he found the running bitter waters
he found the deepest part, too sweet,
he found the quickening tissues of life's first ocean
and mouthed with his ovule lips the words, words, words
first spoken by The Serpent in The Garden
and felt the knot--a bit off from what he thought--
but truly there.
I felt his thirst unloosened by the in-betweeness
that I shared--I named the two salmon: Far Better
and Four Worse.
Deeper, deeper, into less and less--their minds unfastened
with a quickening gait.
The smooth surfaces of things split, rejoined, and split again
the timeless motions, the quickening, the race, ...
Too deep? he said,
like the bluebird's beak
lowering the early worm into the open gaping mouth--
like the yawning chick, my blindness was all peripheral
a matter of perspective, the immanent domain of trousers
snaking their way edgewise into the gullet of the opening maw,
like soiled clothes touching the edge of an overstuffed hamper.
Bluish and empurpled veins stand out on the salmon, too
tight skin, as my kisses land on every inch of the seeable
translucent self. Meanwhile, the upturned salmon, bare and bony,
feeds on small puddles of snowmelt, lapping up the miles.
With his endless inwardness, he disperses his sea-like
wetness in the uncoalescing openings.
I turn round to face the upturned salmon
resting my haunches on his tiny pelvis bone
and place the emptiness of my self-same stillness on his swelling brine-filled
forward motion, the tiny upliftings, the rise and falling of things
unseen, undreamt of, like the long red rays of the sun going (up &) down.
The other salmon moves closer, so that soon
in his approach he is not so much near me as in me
Glad to be in? No? So unprotected
from your rubbery glance, so plastic in your
stretched smile. He was
pointing out his full bodylength, like a gull's neck
Love big enough to hide in a breadbox--
all that is true, I carry inside me,
and out and in, this bodywidth of frailty.
My eyes fix on the singular redness of the thing
the unnatural thickening, just there, anticipating
the eruption of the present, the simultaneous emptying,
the undulations, the eager logic, the perplexed engines of desire....
The radio by the bed announced:
"... they were readied by forces she did not recognize ..."
at that last moment we moved, by prearranged signals
so that the one stood at my feet, above the glistening sheets
where my welcoming toes stand out, and the other moves
to my face where my bluest eye begs for his oblation.
the ending of things
all too certain--a shattering of selves into the rubble
and debris, like ancient Troy a shattering of statues into
unseemly piles of arms, and heads, and legs--the faces
worn away and wedged in between.
We lay there, as Paris, Menelaus & Helen lay--
bodies jumbled up as the shattered stone
our juices spilled for kings.
Even the ear, too, is finally satiated
and the window swallows these words:
"Wait! Did I say salmon? ... I meant salesmen."
"We're in too deep...."
Jorie Graham's "Prayer"
I met two salmon once
in a motel room near Troy, Nebraska--
glimmering and slippery they were,
as tasty as the finest eels, brown and golden
in a frying pan.
The first lay upside down & backwards, while the other
stood beside the bed--patiently waiting--quick & glittering
from the wetness of my mind, where it had dipped into
and found my secret (as I knelt on the bed in prayer):
I have this great emptiness, deep within me,
which needs to be filled.
Nothing else matters.
They were not endangered, not by me at least;
I had never killed anything that way
(except perhaps that time I morally
wounded a dwarf mongoose in Rhode Island,
and I gagged once on an albino python in Montreal)
I hold within so many things--
one size fits all, but I am not unquenchable.
Plunging upwards, the upturned salmon swam against the stream
he found the running bitter waters
he found the deepest part, too sweet,
he found the quickening tissues of life's first ocean
and mouthed with his ovule lips the words, words, words
first spoken by The Serpent in The Garden
and felt the knot--a bit off from what he thought--
but truly there.
I felt his thirst unloosened by the in-betweeness
that I shared--I named the two salmon: Far Better
and Four Worse.
Deeper, deeper, into less and less--their minds unfastened
with a quickening gait.
The smooth surfaces of things split, rejoined, and split again
the timeless motions, the quickening, the race, ...
Too deep? he said,
like the bluebird's beak
lowering the early worm into the open gaping mouth--
like the yawning chick, my blindness was all peripheral
a matter of perspective, the immanent domain of trousers
snaking their way edgewise into the gullet of the opening maw,
like soiled clothes touching the edge of an overstuffed hamper.
Bluish and empurpled veins stand out on the salmon, too
tight skin, as my kisses land on every inch of the seeable
translucent self. Meanwhile, the upturned salmon, bare and bony,
feeds on small puddles of snowmelt, lapping up the miles.
With his endless inwardness, he disperses his sea-like
wetness in the uncoalescing openings.
I turn round to face the upturned salmon
resting my haunches on his tiny pelvis bone
and place the emptiness of my self-same stillness on his swelling brine-filled
forward motion, the tiny upliftings, the rise and falling of things
unseen, undreamt of, like the long red rays of the sun going (up &) down.
The other salmon moves closer, so that soon
in his approach he is not so much near me as in me
Glad to be in? No? So unprotected
from your rubbery glance, so plastic in your
stretched smile. He was
pointing out his full bodylength, like a gull's neck
Love big enough to hide in a breadbox--
all that is true, I carry inside me,
and out and in, this bodywidth of frailty.
My eyes fix on the singular redness of the thing
the unnatural thickening, just there, anticipating
the eruption of the present, the simultaneous emptying,
the undulations, the eager logic, the perplexed engines of desire....
The radio by the bed announced:
"... they were readied by forces she did not recognize ..."
at that last moment we moved, by prearranged signals
so that the one stood at my feet, above the glistening sheets
where my welcoming toes stand out, and the other moves
to my face where my bluest eye begs for his oblation.
the ending of things
all too certain--a shattering of selves into the rubble
and debris, like ancient Troy a shattering of statues into
unseemly piles of arms, and heads, and legs--the faces
worn away and wedged in between.
We lay there, as Paris, Menelaus & Helen lay--
bodies jumbled up as the shattered stone
our juices spilled for kings.
Even the ear, too, is finally satiated
and the window swallows these words:
"Wait! Did I say salmon? ... I meant salesmen."
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See
The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See
"They can't separate probably...."
Robert Hass' "Dragonflies Mating"
One day walking in a tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.
They lay there, almost helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.
And what was really strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes 'cause bisexually
They look, one way, male
And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like an bitch that just gave birth last week.
Their skin was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That's the story they'll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown on them.
And as they rolled across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).
Taking pity on their sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly, again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the empty sky.
Nothing else of note happened that day
Except my hands--even to this day--have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.
You don't believe me? Here, smell my finger.
-----------------------------------------------
Eric Dutton suggests that "MRDP" stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, and another reader suggests Magical Realist Double Penetration, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems most appropriate.
This poem was first published in Arkansas Literary Forum
http://fac.hsu.edu/beggsm/ALF/2003/lee2.htm
"They can't separate probably...."
Robert Hass' "Dragonflies Mating"
One day walking in a tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.
They lay there, almost helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.
And what was really strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes 'cause bisexually
They look, one way, male
And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like an bitch that just gave birth last week.
Their skin was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That's the story they'll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown on them.
And as they rolled across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).
Taking pity on their sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly, again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the empty sky.
Nothing else of note happened that day
Except my hands--even to this day--have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.
You don't believe me? Here, smell my finger.
-----------------------------------------------
Eric Dutton suggests that "MRDP" stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, and another reader suggests Magical Realist Double Penetration, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems most appropriate.
This poem was first published in Arkansas Literary Forum
http://fac.hsu.edu/beggsm/ALF/2003/lee2.htm
Monday, May 7, 2007
Death Returns from Holiday
This poem was influenced, not so much by Meet Joe Black as
by the earlier film Death Takes a Holiday (1934). In this
version of the story, Death tires of his job and decides
to woo the daughter of a millionaire (played by Frederic March).
While he is "on holiday" people stop dying. The terminally ill,
those horribly maimed by accidents, all continue to suffer
because they are unable to die.
--------------------------------
Death Returns from Holiday
"... Nothing ever felt this good."
Marie Howe's "Death, the Last Visit"
I find you and you wrap your fleshy thighs
Around my torso,
Spinning I send you around the emptiness of your room.
I'm sorry I was late, but you understand--
Your open mouth beckons for it
The saltiest of any salty cock you've ever had.
Now that I have you, I won't ever leave,
Even after that bitchy smell
Fills the air with that aroma which is only you.
I take you the way you always hated it
Doggie-style, like Cerberus--three-headed,
Triphallic; and I'm lucky you're a three input kind of gal.
My tongue pries open your mouth, your tongue swells
With lust at my insistence
Feeding my advance with your sweetest breath.
You thought no man could ever reach this deep inside--
No man can touch your heart the way I do
Perhaps dislodge a kidney, pierce a lung or two.
A sour nipple explodes at the nearness of my touch
Your arm twitches with residual delight
Stray neurons firing like that one last, best orgasm of the night.
There's something about that glisten in your eye that says,
"God, forgive me." But you know I always do,
Then, thick lips pressed to your ovule mouth, I say:
"I love you....
I'm sorry I was late. Did I make it up to you?"
I hope so, because forever after,
A corpse, three days dead, is all that's left of you.
by the earlier film Death Takes a Holiday (1934). In this
version of the story, Death tires of his job and decides
to woo the daughter of a millionaire (played by Frederic March).
While he is "on holiday" people stop dying. The terminally ill,
those horribly maimed by accidents, all continue to suffer
because they are unable to die.
--------------------------------
Death Returns from Holiday
"... Nothing ever felt this good."
Marie Howe's "Death, the Last Visit"
I find you and you wrap your fleshy thighs
Around my torso,
Spinning I send you around the emptiness of your room.
I'm sorry I was late, but you understand--
Your open mouth beckons for it
The saltiest of any salty cock you've ever had.
Now that I have you, I won't ever leave,
Even after that bitchy smell
Fills the air with that aroma which is only you.
I take you the way you always hated it
Doggie-style, like Cerberus--three-headed,
Triphallic; and I'm lucky you're a three input kind of gal.
My tongue pries open your mouth, your tongue swells
With lust at my insistence
Feeding my advance with your sweetest breath.
You thought no man could ever reach this deep inside--
No man can touch your heart the way I do
Perhaps dislodge a kidney, pierce a lung or two.
A sour nipple explodes at the nearness of my touch
Your arm twitches with residual delight
Stray neurons firing like that one last, best orgasm of the night.
There's something about that glisten in your eye that says,
"God, forgive me." But you know I always do,
Then, thick lips pressed to your ovule mouth, I say:
"I love you....
I'm sorry I was late. Did I make it up to you?"
I hope so, because forever after,
A corpse, three days dead, is all that's left of you.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The Errors of Poetry
I wrote this poem after reading T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"
I found his poem to be deeply offensive, and I wrote this in the white heat of anger...
_____________________
The Errors of Poetry
"... whatever vacuum you were in before"
T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"
What does it mean when you walk into the living room
and see a guy sitting on your couch,
his hand cradling a woman's head against his lap?
What is it with this guy?
What is it about her face in his crotch,
that makes him think about oats being sucked out of a silo?
Why is it that all things golden,
even "the deep rush of the grain"
remind him of death,
or his last, best orgasm while drunk on pure-grain alcohol
or high on Panama Gold?
Is it her golden hair, tinted black at the roots?
Is it the tattoo of their golden retriever
inked with brown henna on her shoulder blade?
Is it the golden ring, piercing her lower lip, which brings
to mind that time she took his yellow Beemer
and crashed it into the lake
(and how--inspired by his name--she made it up to him later)?
Or is it the "vacuum you were in before" that great emptiness
deep within her golden skin--her mind, like Yorick's,
which begs over and over to be filled.
How much depends on rendering into verse
the corpse of some forgotten farmer's son
lost in a silo full of oats?
And why does this poem remind me of Eric Clapton,
or anyone who's ever written a poem about a guardian angel?
I don't know--you tell me.
I found his poem to be deeply offensive, and I wrote this in the white heat of anger...
_____________________
The Errors of Poetry
"... whatever vacuum you were in before"
T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"
What does it mean when you walk into the living room
and see a guy sitting on your couch,
his hand cradling a woman's head against his lap?
What is it with this guy?
What is it about her face in his crotch,
that makes him think about oats being sucked out of a silo?
Why is it that all things golden,
even "the deep rush of the grain"
remind him of death,
or his last, best orgasm while drunk on pure-grain alcohol
or high on Panama Gold?
Is it her golden hair, tinted black at the roots?
Is it the tattoo of their golden retriever
inked with brown henna on her shoulder blade?
Is it the golden ring, piercing her lower lip, which brings
to mind that time she took his yellow Beemer
and crashed it into the lake
(and how--inspired by his name--she made it up to him later)?
Or is it the "vacuum you were in before" that great emptiness
deep within her golden skin--her mind, like Yorick's,
which begs over and over to be filled.
How much depends on rendering into verse
the corpse of some forgotten farmer's son
lost in a silo full of oats?
And why does this poem remind me of Eric Clapton,
or anyone who's ever written a poem about a guardian angel?
I don't know--you tell me.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Executioner of Academe
This poem first appeared in American Dissident.
---------------------------
The Executioner of Academe
"... It overtook him finally"
Donald Justice's "In Memory of the Unknown Poet"
I am his story
I will always be his story
The brute boot put against his face--
This nameless poet, scrambling to find a place
Of tenure, or a sinecure, or a post
Where safely he can sit and think
And maybe write diacriticals or deconstructive verse.
I stalked him, I overtook him finally
in the hallways of The Academe, before he took his orals.
"Who is the victim today," I say
Within earshot of his trembling lip, his hairless chin.
My partners in this crime,
Professors of Medieval lit and the Metaphysicals,
Deferred to me--his executioner--the Modernist
As the most nearly able to judge the body of his work.
But I had already judged, found wanting this black-bespeckled bird,
And I was first to place my soft-leather boot in that face
And shove him back down the snake&ladder chute.
Aware (he was) now finally of the boredom and the horror....
Perhaps in the end he was not sad
Even in that moment when the oxford leather struck his face.
That was his story anyway, or it became his story
Of how he (narrowly) escaped the boredom and the horror.
When lately I have seen him wandering
From his job as cappuccino cashier to Wal-mart greeter,
I think back on that day, and it gives me cheer
For I had become the boredom and the horror.
It is all done now, but I can still remember
His effeminate voice, his one unfocused eye as it straggled
Limply along the text of his great masterwork,
His fading voice now no longer filled with poetry.
It is all now the horror and the horror.
---------------------------
The Executioner of Academe
"... It overtook him finally"
Donald Justice's "In Memory of the Unknown Poet"
I am his story
I will always be his story
The brute boot put against his face--
This nameless poet, scrambling to find a place
Of tenure, or a sinecure, or a post
Where safely he can sit and think
And maybe write diacriticals or deconstructive verse.
I stalked him, I overtook him finally
in the hallways of The Academe, before he took his orals.
"Who is the victim today," I say
Within earshot of his trembling lip, his hairless chin.
My partners in this crime,
Professors of Medieval lit and the Metaphysicals,
Deferred to me--his executioner--the Modernist
As the most nearly able to judge the body of his work.
But I had already judged, found wanting this black-bespeckled bird,
And I was first to place my soft-leather boot in that face
And shove him back down the snake&ladder chute.
Aware (he was) now finally of the boredom and the horror....
Perhaps in the end he was not sad
Even in that moment when the oxford leather struck his face.
That was his story anyway, or it became his story
Of how he (narrowly) escaped the boredom and the horror.
When lately I have seen him wandering
From his job as cappuccino cashier to Wal-mart greeter,
I think back on that day, and it gives me cheer
For I had become the boredom and the horror.
It is all done now, but I can still remember
His effeminate voice, his one unfocused eye as it straggled
Limply along the text of his great masterwork,
His fading voice now no longer filled with poetry.
It is all now the horror and the horror.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
I Wag This Dog
I Wag this Dog
"...it can tell a dull story."
William Matthews' "Pissing off the Back
of the Boat into the Nivernais Canal"
Iamb
the measure of all man
iamb, iamb
the measure of all man.
See me stand, see me stand,
Master of all the Land,
Primogenitor of Poetry,
pissing in the proverbial wind,
Primal Source of sloppy verse
(ooops I wet myself again)....
The only thinking part of man.
Iamb the Pater Familias
"Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"
"Sure we do."
"Then let him out!"
Iamb the creative source of every dog-leg joke that ever was
and the lusty source of every child that has
your eyes, your chin, your smile.
Iamb poetry, Iamb music, Iamb philosophy:
What is good?
Good is that day at work, when you see the end of it
and know you did your part (almost) pretty-good.
Good is the coldest beer in your hand, the biggest fish
in your net, and your friend's big boat slowly
heading back to a dock he pays the rent for.
Good is milking your neighbor's cow through the fence,
with the sun just come up, the cool breeze in your face,
and holding something warm&wet in your hand.
What is evil?
Evil is following that gal home, whose big behind
attracts you like the divining rod of lust.
Evil is fighting that guy that you can't beat,
even with a 2x4 and a good first shot
in his huge, ugly mush
--or, worse yet, watching him sitting on your favorite bar stool
and buying drinks for that woman whose soul is
beat down with the biggest ugly stick there ever was.
But truly the greatest evil of all
is the Frankenstein monster that sneaks up behind you
--so you don't see it comin'--
it creeps up behind us like a malignant prostate tumor.
And even when your daddy died, his brothers
stood in line and shook hands with every other
(as I did in my imagination)
for I knew them all. I knew these old men and they knew me--
they had the smell of cancer on them
or was it dried urine? I think I know what cancer smells like.
And when the prostate dies, the rest of us will follow
very soon. For (in your mind) I am that flag
flown at half-mast to symbolize
the flacid final death which comes, too soon, for us all.
And what is Heaven?
Heaven is you at a Green Bay Packer football game
in December, with no shirt, your chest painted green and yellow,
in -10 degree weather and the beer in your plastic
cup with a frozen head of foam....
Hell is me there with you, colder'n the head of an eskimo's tool.
"...it can tell a dull story."
William Matthews' "Pissing off the Back
of the Boat into the Nivernais Canal"
Iamb
the measure of all man
iamb, iamb
the measure of all man.
See me stand, see me stand,
Master of all the Land,
Primogenitor of Poetry,
pissing in the proverbial wind,
Primal Source of sloppy verse
(ooops I wet myself again)....
The only thinking part of man.
Iamb the Pater Familias
"Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"
"Sure we do."
"Then let him out!"
Iamb the creative source of every dog-leg joke that ever was
and the lusty source of every child that has
your eyes, your chin, your smile.
Iamb poetry, Iamb music, Iamb philosophy:
What is good?
Good is that day at work, when you see the end of it
and know you did your part (almost) pretty-good.
Good is the coldest beer in your hand, the biggest fish
in your net, and your friend's big boat slowly
heading back to a dock he pays the rent for.
Good is milking your neighbor's cow through the fence,
with the sun just come up, the cool breeze in your face,
and holding something warm&wet in your hand.
What is evil?
Evil is following that gal home, whose big behind
attracts you like the divining rod of lust.
Evil is fighting that guy that you can't beat,
even with a 2x4 and a good first shot
in his huge, ugly mush
--or, worse yet, watching him sitting on your favorite bar stool
and buying drinks for that woman whose soul is
beat down with the biggest ugly stick there ever was.
But truly the greatest evil of all
is the Frankenstein monster that sneaks up behind you
--so you don't see it comin'--
it creeps up behind us like a malignant prostate tumor.
And even when your daddy died, his brothers
stood in line and shook hands with every other
(as I did in my imagination)
for I knew them all. I knew these old men and they knew me--
they had the smell of cancer on them
or was it dried urine? I think I know what cancer smells like.
And when the prostate dies, the rest of us will follow
very soon. For (in your mind) I am that flag
flown at half-mast to symbolize
the flacid final death which comes, too soon, for us all.
And what is Heaven?
Heaven is you at a Green Bay Packer football game
in December, with no shirt, your chest painted green and yellow,
in -10 degree weather and the beer in your plastic
cup with a frozen head of foam....
Hell is me there with you, colder'n the head of an eskimo's tool.
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