O! Praise upon the cloven-hooved beast,
the fawn, the doe, the buck
that bound and warily snip the leaves.

O! Praise upon the moose
its dark muscular tranquility,
slipping out then into shadow.

O! Praise upon the bighorn sheep
who cling nimble to cliffs and know
to climb sideways, cracking
resolved conflicts down
the mountainside.

For blessed are the cloven-hooved,
named and unnamed,
surefooted, fleet, horned and innocent,
that grace the graven icons of demons.

Sharp edge of a coldfront
stands west of Dells,
a rigid lead line on a ridge
where the leanin' broke-roof barn
stands ready to take in buckets.

Ain't been scavenged
for old wood yet,
for picture frames,
sold,
where the upwardly mobile,
shop for the quaint, rustic things,
reshaped for authenticity,
and a clipped last year
wall calendar
image of a red barn
in a yellow field,
below a blue
cloudless sky,
following
the perfect rule
of thirds.

When she entered a room,
conflict dissolved like sugarin'
lemonade.

She has a kindness rare
for possessing such a dressing
down mind.

She free-style fingerstyled
her Martin with a well-trained swing,
and her voice could melt concrete.

She could outrun a gazelle.

She saw the world from a catamaran,
taking each swell in her teeth.

She took the world by the pants
and threw it down.

She picked it up,
brushed it off,
and let it know
that everything
would be okay.

It has been awhile
since we strummed
together.

It has been awhile
since she played my tunes
much better
than my cramped hands.

It has been far too long
and I am mute and afraid.

For that raging joy,
has been forever,
caged.

Fist upon the sun gods.
Seek among the goddess earth.
Chant and clang before icons:
oh please, good fortunes,
new birth and wealth.
Sacrifice a goat - the blood will dry
at the foot of the temple.
The blood will dry
and still no rain.

Scream into the night
for a pittance of hope demanded
and stir a neighbor's peace
a dog's twitch into soup dreams
of portent and panic. Yes,
that, once done, bestows
upon us the riches, the riches
the ancients cached:

Dishes wash smoother when soaked.
A grain in a bowl is not empty.
Basil brings life to bland fare.
The herbs of spring strengthen
once dried and stored for winter,
and the yeast of us rise unto heaven.

I know neither ******* nor Liberation.
I have no Holy Day in June.

I don't need to beg for status -
whether legal or human.

I don't run when the laws arrive,
and no clerk counts the items
in my hands going into the fitting rooms.

Nobody checks my receipt,
and no trooper trails waiting
for me to drift over the line.

Ain't no door been closed,
no fountain restricted,
no glass in my ceiling.

Listing these truths reveal
what's been in plain sight
all along.

But I tell you this.

If every crayon in the box
were melted down in one great ***,
the wax will be brown,
and if molded around a wick,
and lit,
the flame would reach
unto heaven,
and light a brave new land.

I like burnt coffee,
the black half cup in the ***,
evaporating into syrup,
tongue-rejected but swallowed hot.

I like bent smokes,
cracked at the filter,
pinched and squeezed,
dispersing joyous poisons,
some to the lung demanding:

Each day begin bitter, imperfect,
stiff into addictions of dawn,
into the drawn curtain ways
of waking.