Though I am more Che than Chavez,
I am still a dove.
I do not apologize
to you. Or to the state
of California. The IRS. New York. That administrator I bit
in the third grade,
who was delicious
In the mind, the Dionysian defiles walls
the Apollonian protects.
I am always looking
to take something
down. Usually it’s me.
Two bulls stand on a hill. The younger says,
Father, let’s run down and fuck a cow.
The father, wiser, longer in the horn,
higher on the grass,
reminds his son how Moses was also horned, beamed with light,
that to handle a massive snake,
to charm Pharaoh, to steal fire, to fly, to unzip
the sea, is to speak
and not tap vanity.
Moses descended Mount Sinai with cracked slabs
and saw a golden calf. The father said to the young bull,
No son, let’s strut down and fuck them all.
Thus begins the beef between bird and bee,
the isthmus isolating
order from chaos.
My mind is made up
of so many different cuts
My marbles stay
as my metaphors. As my myths.
At parties my favorite
icebreaker involves asking strangers
to describe themselves
with three words. Their descriptions
are a slipping
away to change clothes. Identity and irony
neatly knit in an ugly Christmas sweater.
Sometimes I feel so Socratic: oft-laureled, poison-palmed,
toga-partied, exasperated by the masses:
I wouldn’t have guessed ambitious.
Free-spirited, you don’t say.
Other times I feel like the woman
rambling among the vapors escaping the ground
in Iceland’s volcanic canyon,
making a bus
an em dash
in a rest stop,
where some fifty-odd persons
searching for themselves
in true existentialism
are yellow lupines growing
on the side of the road. An epiphany can
not be achieved,
as a cedar waxwing
cannot be more cedar
qua waxwing. Eventually what we’re looking
for appears. Sometimes incitation opens
at the bottom of a straw, a spoon, a barrel of wine,
the windfall happens while eating farfalle,
while flipping through
The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo. At the moon
me the animal roofs
atop brownstones, sin vergüenza.
Upwards our eyes scamper,
a reflex action,
when inserting an object
in the mouth,
even when the object
is a gun. Over hills a road erodes the way home.
Only after the Coast Guard
has readied a helicopter,
descend the cold volcano in Eldg já
to realize we are the woman
in the search party looking
In moments of ecstasy
we are lifted
At the shore of the Aegean Sea
or at the banks
of the river Evros,
he loosened his sandals
while Pegasus stamped the soil,
and hoofing away
stray wood. The sun bandaged
light on a sky
that would not heal.
with eyes heavenward,
formed the shapes of gods into clouds,
slipped his hand
into the woven sack,
and felt the flint
of primped snakes. He thought,
But it is the cold weight of scales that protects.
As sure as a child,
he lined leaves rocked
to sleep by salt
for a bed,
so as not to,
or with hubris,
disunited head. One day,
like a beam through skylight,
life is a puddle jumper of tragedy.
Some stones sink fast
yet still hold light. So phantom are a statue’s
busted arms and toes. Everything must go.
And yet I still hanger hope
when shopping the racks of discount
stores. Veni vidi vici when I see Vince,
freeze when I see the coiled coif
of Versace’s emblem. Like Sisyphus,
they headed for the top.
Sing, started from the bottom,
to my reflection
in the dressing room mirror,
now we here boy
when I remember
Oh my god Becky, look at her butt
passes the Bechdel test.
I have eaten from the tree the fig that sullies and seen
that the meat’s not always
and Sir Mix-a-Lot,
born by a riv
felled by pride when
a brown boy, tattooed with age,
obsessed with fame, took his talents
to Vermont to kiss trees and tap
syrup from the sap.
There and there
and there, he kissed. Here and here
So drunk he hugged an old
off the ground. None of the gods
love me. To be tipsy
is to leverage one’s self.
Or so I’m told. The pulley
is considered civilization’s