This obelisk rises from my groin,
erected in the middle of the night,
you moan while I go deep
inside you with a poem.
The strength of my soul
is like six eagles on a totem pole.
All I need is your heart spread wide
like the wound in Lincoln’s head, why
do you dance ’round the funeral pyre,
while my time’s wound round my wrist
like a suicide victim’s slit?

What incantation, little miss, did you set adrift?
What impatient heart did you set a-racing
while the rest of us sat waiting in the snow drift?
What invitation, what silliness, did you accept?
What invocation to a mischievous God did you script?

I’ve got seventeen angels drinking my communion wine.
I’ve got eighteen bouncers guarding St. Peter’s line.
I’ve got nineteen marionettes cutting their twine.
I’ve got twenty heavenly ladders to climb.

I caught you…
slipping the poison into my mind.

My chariot wheel slipped off the road.
Came up short when you kissed the toad.
I hold this note in my throat, I can’t sing
when I’m down in the hole.

And what more
can you expect of me?
What for?
This mental telepathy?


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