has it lit to reflect his crown.Ms. Jenner’s teats swell in her blouse.Burrs prick the sky in Baltimore,more melons ripen in the South.The US of old is no more.The racist straight must shut his mouth.We are all now confederate,with midnight spangled overhead,although beyond, cold, temperate,the stars say the dawn will be red.
awake in a grey roomwhere there’s no night or day—a Swedenborgianself-sentenced heaven-hell.I stand nearby the window.He says: “I’ve always knownI am the greatest poet.”I answer: “I feel the sameabout my humble self.And what about God? ”With stern hawkish eyes,he looks at me and says:“Electricity! ”
gone to the dogs) , my dear,dear reader—do not cowerin fear; stand up and facethe dogs! In you the powerremains to save the West.Put down your childless Spenglerwho spawned two books at best.Better to heed the deedsof a forsaken prisonerlike Hess, or charge on steedslike John Sobieski, steadyin soul; to follow Lee’sRebs into battle, readyfor…
the stained-glass windows. Yet I laid her fast.My balls and manhood were her body’s sire.Her lips were soft, tumescent, from being pleasured,her subtle thanks for thrusts both deep and strong.Her delicate hands said she liked it long.My smacks on her pale ass cheeks were well measured.She lay with nature’s love inside her womb,both yoni and…
feeding on ripe apples,drinking midnight dew.Giant eyes of owlsfollow their small prey.White hares in the brushresurrect the leaves
You watch along the creek bank stones.A Norway rat filled up with cornsqueals as a mink drags it away,the blood left on the loam: a trail,a trail to heaven, blue today,but winding first through earth and hell.
If but the sun had burned less brightlyupon the faces of the deadHe saw heaped high that winter dayinside a pit dug in a field,one could say who was good, who bad,who was a sinner, who a saint,but those He saw were saved in deathand share one grave beneath His land.
read the languageof the cracks;pay attentionto the rookscursing the cloudsabove your head;hear the tollsof bells acrossthe sooty red bricksof Petersdorf;and watch the leavesdeparting lindens,sailing overthe iron gateto lie amongthe faded letters,the withered flowersand toppled stones.
until a world of purest forms was drawn,he put away his thoughts and stepped outside,and saw a new sun on the far horizon,felt a cool breeze lifted from the sea,then heard a flock of gulls philosophizingon what lasts longer than philosophy.
to have been carried up.”—Marcus AureliusOnly this stone is certain,if only for a moment.I touch it and look downat the dark sea, a curtainbehind which life here started,reminded that all thingsare in a state of flux,the living and departed.And yet the bell still ringsover the sun-lit hill.A padre gives a sermonabout eternal things.“The Father sacrificeshis…
