four voices at armageddon

coyote breaths are in

the sewers – scrambled

                        from plains

                        of burning kisses,

                        reticent

and

hairy. the

dress comes down

           her

legs as far as the sky and

                                      the

sky has mastered

animal sounds and made

                                   scorpions dance

to keep from sleeping

                        in the sand:

                        to keep their

venom ready

as a fire hose: to

float

        on the egg masses of frogs

        who’ve hopped away

after

clutching together for days.

 

i asked

the waitress about boiling leather shoes

when trees

           are stripped of color and

                                                 too

                                                 rooted to fly. i

asked

her about spinning toys that

                                   keep no one happy

and lead soldiers

                that warp and poison

                small minds but,

she patted my hand

and crawled away.

 

“goddamnit.

the killing is so perfunctory it’s

impossible

not to wet the bed. turn on

                                    the goddamn tv.

mute the sounds in the kitchen

and

       i’ll eat

like a hurricane.

dogs are

tasting

            better

            every

            day

without much cooking.

and the

        trees

sag leafless

in the wettest sun.

save some of that

cement for your house.

                              pile it.

and goddamnit, don’t

talk.”

 

minutes are stagnant

like stained glass

though they seem to mean

so much that dust

collected in the corner

is simply glue that won’t

brake movement anymore:

a religion without a story:

a crystal ball turned to

salt on a bird’s tail.