Thursday, March 17, 2005

[in progress ii]

I do not speak this language term. Soft fasten
pulp prosperity war. Mr. Cleric, Mr. Layman, name
      a “Chaplin” for the Aryan nation. Beat them
           with baseball bats and feed their
      texts or bodies through a shredder. I acted
           only under orders, your honor, I did
      chains temple bricks and feet of clay.
      Too many deictics neuters and feminine rhymes
for this to be an American sonnet. Free to starve
           to kill to speak someone else’s mind.

My name is datum, my nature is
      a gift. Oriel of oriole orisons sea
      to shining scent, purged of scenic estuaries
           methodical fjords and transient
      sporting utility vehicles. My name is torture,
           the best penetrant your money
      can buy. A flag in every classroom, boiled
      head in every pot: your sparrows
are numbered, ticked them off on nine
           curled fingers and a twinkle toe.

     Pull out before you do it, make sure the camera
has a clear shot. Money in the bank. For
casualties read casual tears, for remorse read
      remoras, for regrettable errors read triumphant ner
           era. Galley proof slaves. Resentment
      spawned a bright and shining obsession, poising thought
           against the blurred third-hand idea: truth is to
      beauty as duck is to rabbit. Quack quack, said the
poet, which echoed through the fish-houses.

No comments: