old boneyards made the perfect sites--
the residents content to wait,
through late-night fornication rites--
for judgment at a future date

sly little sisters took their turn,
when breakups offered openings
to quench the adolescent burn
by covering a load of sins

with stories that got passed around,
a currency as firm as gold,
assuring they were never found
without a little death foretold

next day the brimstone sermons ruled,
in nodding pews post Sunday school

Karl's been drinking since yesterday,
when she came back for her clothes
and the dog he bought her
five or six years ago,
an Irish sitter
that never seemed to trust him,
even though he'd fed it well
and brushed its coat
for the two weeks she'd been gone,
suspecting perhaps
that the whole affair
was more his fault
than the other man's
and surely more than hers.

the man with nothing to say
stretches it
past comprehension,
echoing the future
when all
the voices
return

I do not like you,  Donald Trump,
You're what they also call a ****.
Your life of crime is such a  shame.
You should go back to where you came.
Except they wouldn't have you there,
Not even if you comb your hair.
Disguise yourself as Putin's clown.
Sell out your country going down.

the muse drops in
on a lazy man,
an easy mark
reclining as a well-fed cat
in a spot of sun
that slants its ways
past the crosses in an old window
stuck shut yet still transparent

to find the finest things things the night
permits needs words & flesh subsumed,
an alchemy of second sight
from chaos yet a smidgen mined
of ecstasy through horror sung,
the pleasure of a mortal realm
where ripe fruit strangely falls unhung,
sweet taste beneath the bitter elm.
whose will can guide the hunter's barge,
forecast his raucous wanderings?
a raven or a dove in charge
of carrion and olive sprigs,
a turkish van set swim for shore,
as black and white as ancient lore

she wanted more, then wanted less,
a finely tuned ambivalence--
great love songs written in her name,
crisp folded, flown inside the flame.
my inclination to persist
outweighed the wisdom to resist,
come hell, deep water and the past
(rearview the only looking glass)
still walking past the angels' steps,
a fool in nose deep long-legged depths,
uncertain of the punishment
for such a carnal,  tasty stunt.
she'll read this bittersweet as sin,
complaining at what's never been