The God People

 God People are at the door

loaded off of trucks

where they slept under tarps.

Kids, no

I know she looks like Madison's mom

but she's

a God Person now.

God People are at the door

having just walked through

the spiritual car wash

and they're coming for you,

Barbara.

They want to eat you and leave no tip.

God People are at the door.

Bobby quick go wake up daddy

and tell him

to bring

the Tikka. 

_______

My brother uncharacteristically contacted me twice in mid-August trying to get me to be "saved", which I don't believe in. It took me a minute to realize that he probably believed all that booshwah about the Rapture happening in September. (It didn't.)  

Tikka is a popular brand of hunting rifle.

After

 November is the lover who leaves--

December is the long nights, after.

Trust is the toddler on the tracks--

Experience is hanging from the rafter. 

Hope is a prayer whispered in the dark--

Truth is the unexpected laughter.

Is it wrong of you to wish her gone to Hell?

Maybe when you get there you can ask her.

----

I took the opening couplet from a poem I wrote in 2012 and raided for parts. The rest is new. 

Wishbone

 Little fox,

I've come to confess to you

though I know your church is the chicken coop

and your Christ is appetite. 

If there is mist up on the mountain,

it's my spirit wandering.

The rest of me kneels here,

before you in the brambles like an overturned cup.

Alone in my bed, I have wondered

why I hurt my lovers, why they hurt me,

but I think it's because

angels are so similar to layers

especially when a spray of white feathers

in the air is all that's left.

Little fox, here is my spirit 

riding wrapped around your slender black feet.

Let's test our hearts and pull a wishbone--

you've got plenty cast aside.

If I win, I'll change my ways and skew to kind.

And if you win?

I'll call him, saying let's try again

knowing what will happen, and how sly my words have been.

While I Stared at the Moon

 While I stared at the moon

summer slept with death's black rooster,

her garland tethered to his three toes

with their talons sharp as testament. 

While I stared at the moon

frost made love to my bones,

each on its proper shelf like dishes

in a house with snakes for silver. 

While I stared at the moon

half-dead men danced with half-mad women

though neither was excited, and neither calm.

Roses twined and cut them both with promises.

While I stared at the moon

my fetch sat down on a river stone,

grinning with the morning in its pocket.

I wept and the night ate my heart like a truffle. 

_____________

Yellow Mums

 yellow mums

little dark green shadow

to june's

boastful, favored roses--

they have all

turned to twisted thorns

married to

the clippers' blades

but you

love the autumn

and are

humbly lovely now

aren't you,

yellow mums?

Winery

 Love has gone mad, like you my dear

and keeps night in a wine press like a caged bird.

I will save it, says Love, turning the handle

to birth a morning with broken wings of red curd.

Everyone here keeps their mouths in jars

to prevent you influencing their palates, dear.

Anyone with any sense has placed locks on every vine--

all that grows down the rows is the silent brooding volunteer.

Morning whispers madness through your skin, 

and wears a crimson cloak made of feathers and strange paste.

I will marry it, says Love, hand in hand with Oblivion

serving wine heavy with grape skins and an odd metallic taste.

I cannot love you anymore.

I cannot argue, not another word.

Love has gone mad, like you my dear--

enjoy together your strange vintage

of dark mornings,

heavy tannins

and Love's dead, wide-eyed bird.

Liars Love the Moon

 liars love the moon

and their worst lie

is the one they tell themselves

that it will love them back

or

that it even could.

it will slowly drive them mad

and in the end can make them

drink and

drown themselves,

shoes left neatly on the sand

in the pale light.

(for Carole Landis)

My Love of the Morning

 My love of the morning

my love dressed in dawn

My love early risen,

and risen, so still

My love whom only

the noonday could kill

My love of an hour

my love in the dust

My love who only 

does what she must

with a folded lily in folded hands

my love whom the afternoon reprimands

My love of the dusk

my love of the evening

My love barely listening

my love barely breathing

Who is my love whose love only leaves her

and lingers in shadows where no one receives her?

My love in the night

who desires the moon

and the stars all gleaming

through tired trees leaning

My love of the earth, my love of the grave

my love oif the sky, the blaze, the wave.