Operas
mount racehorses.
Idiom rubs elbows
with Billboard charts.
World capitols bow
to puns
and seabirds,
and long-dead winners
waltz,
cheek to cheek,
with subject-verb
agreement.

The things we love most
are the least important,
but how nice to find
them meeting
each other.

In the desert of south Utah,
lies a staircase of gods.

Follow the southwestern wind
there to the middle,
until you find
the tomb of The Gore King.

The smallest version
of a frightful legend,
five-inch fangs
in sutured jaws,
a skull like a comet,
dragging death forward
to
any
next
new
blood.

How quaint,
how horrible and honest,
to demand your meals,
to roar your lust.

You should have stood straight,
practiced grins
and built museums,
friendly temples
of natural history,
yesterday's dangers
made safe
in cartooning winks.

Now,
your reign of terror
diverts
our screeching young.

Last night,
I boiled
and baked,
fried at least twice,
a meal
of multiple courses,
balanced textures,
and a symphony of spices.

Deliciously earned,
in hours, in dishes,
it tasted
as good
as food
can taste.

.

This morning
I overslept,
groaned upright
into water and coffee.

This morning,
this banana,
is heaven on earth.

tragedy,
like joy,
is built
in tiny
parts,

you can never
track
just how
it happened.

life is full of swallow hazards,
plastic pieces,
straight lines,
sharp edges.

Angry sparks
get lost
in light pollution
until they spiral
to the bottom
of this season's funnel.

Brilliant blazing warmth
for the night,
then a burned-out
barrel,
next to the others,
a museum of flaking moments
in the cold morning air.

Death is too big
for ten words
or less,
and these bobbing signs
and chanting rhymes
make myths of our meaning.

Or at least
so I sneer at my screens.

I have no right
to ask you,
to stir my stuttered spirit,
to rouse me from my
contemptible
somnolent
overfed
indifference.

Nonetheless,
I have to say,
for better or worse,
this just doesn't do it.

You were stern
when we were young
and spared not a rod,
but when you moved,
for us,
you boomed like miracles.

Later, you calmed,
and willed us
your wealth,
tried to share
how to share,
and we stubborn
and stupid,
wielded your love
like bludgeons.

Now modern,
full-grown,
we trace only
our ugliest genes
back to you.

And you,
old and dying,
can climb no mounts,
have nothing new to say,
and we don't call you
anymore.

I propose a deal.

Where I would
scrape terrace walls,
would break my vows
to god and state,
Would fall in ****
and climb out broke,
Would cheat you blind,
Would feed you grapes,
Would steal ruby rings
from bishops' tombs,
Would bolt my pottage
with a wooden spoon
to get back to leaving
a painting unfinished,
I would be murdered
by your brothers
and ghost you with my head.
I would fire and **** and pray you.
Would believe myself
a ploughhorse.

All of this,
for ten stories,
each night.