John Cale was in the House of Anthrax
before we’d even heard that word called terror.
Terror is the unmoving phalanx of cars
stretched twelve miles short of the city.
Terror is a cloud you can’t describe.
Terror is the sound of engines silenced,
unlimited progress on a flat map.
Terror is the recoil of beauty,
a birthmark buried in hate.
Terror is the unthinkable act
played out eternally as afterthought.
Angel hair is in my eyes.
What a heavenly surprise.
There are wing tips on my shoes.
Grab my harp and play the blues.
I must be up on cloud nine.
I can see a bright light shine.
Feel a halo on my head.
I assume that I am dead.
I can hear angelic voices.
Guess in life I made good choices.
For all my finger lickin’, I came back as a chicken.
I ate a thousand wings, now I’m one of those things.
I’m paying for those benders when I ate many tenders.
Did not realize how gory was chicken cacciatore.
I am a chicken now for chewing General Gao.
I’m paying for that fling with chicken a la king.
I ate it diced and shredded, now I’m poultry embedded.
I spent life as a guy who craved the breast and thigh.
Now it’s too late to beg, ’cause I am of the egg.
And it’s no use to growl, I ran afoul of fowl.
Old cats in black boots and dirty jackets sit
around a fire, burning tire, pass around a hit.
They talk of Eisenhower, Vietnam and J.F.K.,
of families and old friends who are not around today.
Most are vets and some served in the war to end all wars.
How can we stand by and know their lives will end outdoors?
Robin spied a spotted uncle on her way to the Dansk outlet.
He flitted from branch to branch, his silvered wrists aflutter.
She’d once thought him a nuthatch, but he’d grown into himself.
She would never forget his bright red coat, that one fashionable fall,
or her childhood wonder at his whispered songs of relativity.
His freckles and moles had been enhanced with henna appliques
and a variety of brightly colored small round bandaids.
This is his season, she thought. Perhaps he could be lured by some chai.
Your words have choked
my ambience.
The droll dithers and hithers
in obvious time.
A parlance afar.
Theresay and herespeak.
Leaking meaning to the edges
of suicidal sentences.
Adverbs and adjectives in combat.
Verification intact;
this phrase kills me.
Compounded, astounded,
the rebound, the echo
is grounded, sublime,
and in time with the tune
of your moon. La lune.
My ear is in search of your song.
I hope I’ve not heard it all wrong.