Everything’s a factory
An industry
Aligning me
With fall in line
Assembly lining
Genocide
Is fine with me
It’s fuel to feed the fire
It’s the viewer
It’s the buyer
It’s the rule to heed
The necessary
Evil
The empire

In the shade of the crescent moon,
A silvery-silken veil wears a face,
Celestial spirits run from the crematories
And gathered in one place;
The spirits died of treason
Unrolled their boxes of grief,
And wail at the end of the season;
They have been sleeping for years
Surely more than a hibernating bear,
They do not sound friendly,
As revengeful and rageful they appear;
But the holy light of Indian basil
Keeps them apart,
And so I light a lamp every day
And from my gate, the spirits depart.

casts huge leaf shadows on dirt
and the mockingbird's mocking me.

"mockingbird,"
I put my hands in my pocket
and pretend a smile,
"some things you can't out run,
church bells and a wedding dress,
funeral processions and baptisms,
the cop car radio,

she was so beautiful in her wedding dress,"

I'm pointing my finger up at the mockingbird,
"so I'm a few steps ahead of you in heartache,

it was a toss of the dice,"I tell the bird,

"I threw a handful of rice."

"so don't look sad at me, bird.
everyone gets hurt."

and on her branch in the sycamore tree
the mockingbird's crying to me...

"I'm a few years ahead you...
Sweet One, lonely bird.

I've walked through fire,
stared into the wall of shadow and sorrow
into the cold silence of tomorrow.

I hear what you're telling me, Dear One,
loves been a little ******* you, too,

and there in illusion lies the danger
so please be kind, my friend,

the sorrows that never seem to fade away
become the grey, dark sea,
and sunlight through the Sycamore tree.

Saw Wicked in New York City
Man of La Mancha too
Rode the free bus in Chapel Hill
Carolina blue

Als Ick Kan, Mr. Markson
The best that I can do
Snowfall shunyata
7372

                   And you.

your mustache became your

mouth's permanent hibernation--

"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"

no more.

your brows fell down on your

cartoonishly crossed eyes, fighting

to get a last good look at you.

as if a cradle's starry

revolutions counted you out.

your snowed in smock neatly tucked

in for posterity.

your sister's doting hands trailing off.

to where that mare waited in a flurry of

blows--so it could saddle your mind.

I ask for so little
I have enough:
my poverty
doesn't put me to task