END OF THE ROAD
song, audience, woman
leave me as an island
leave me to the knife
my mettle near broken
body pinned lifelessly
by loud radios
red-lit by reinvention
of the fading sun
head remembering rhinestones,
and ruffed sartorial style
busted guitar, unplugged mic stand,
stage shirt ripped and caked with sweat-mold
splash my blood
make wall-paper stains
like sheet music
I’ll play that
How can I make you believe the tiger, the lion,
who ones who lived here gored by tusks,
along these roads with the poisonous snakes
and the ants up to their armpits;
you think the people just lounged
on the creaky old veranda and whittled,
or slept down by the creek,
fishing pole poking out of droopy hands;
but there were wars against bears,
struggles with sharks, days when
hyenas stalked the gravel driveways,
vultures sniffed for rotting meat;
these are brave men bleeding
from their scorpion bites
and don’t let the buzzards tell you otherwise.
RAPE IN A CAPSULE
Such brown water under that bridge.
And a network of spies
buzzing from the tail buildings,
the eyes of drunkards.
And when sensation and invention
get together, what is there left but visitation.
Not Virgin Mary, thank God.
But the woman from that space capsule,
in satin silver suit,
a glass cage on her head,
telling you how often she was raped
by all those men
in that damnable tiny capsule,
as they shrieked “Sputnik!”,
greeted her “no’s” with
“If America can send a man to the moon
why can’t I suck on your left nipple.”
Go away, Space Virgin! you scream.
The water’s dark and moody as a starless heaven.
The buildings have never seemed more
like sacrificial temples even though
you have a friend who works in one.
And the bums aren’t begging for change
but telling you that the next time will be different.
Whoosh! Another launch.
Zoom! That whole other universe,
the one that no one sees but you.