Anthrax In the Garden

Bore me to death with your lyrical prose.

Murder ain’t the answer when you

question my opinion. Upside down the

battle cry we march around the temple.

Bearing bombs of frankincense with anthrax

in the garden. Digging holes with broken

spades. Lift-off left without a hitch while

Barney Miller scratched his eczematous

scalp. A little girl let me die with leather pants

and blackened lips. Eat the Bette Davis stew,

with onion rings, brokeback pie and paranoia

salad; with a copper spoon and a pocket

knife. Everlast the liquid state, the melting sun

in boiling glass, the six-string catatonic scale,

the crimson bleeding flower.

Let It Rain

Jenny rode shotgun in a paper

plane

outstretched arms

eyes wide shot down

let it

rain out of time

wash away the sands of

superficial flight

emotive stare hand of fear

smell of nihilistic fever soaking

bed sheets

let it

rain out of time

gargoyle with a broken wing

stone unfolds

water bathes

lifts the paper airplane

streams wider than streets

made of clouds through

the sky

eyes wide Jenny

let it rain