October 22, 2007

Song of Defecation

America has named most of its daughters Emma or Emily,
My eldest daughter is riding into St Louis atop a thirty-foot-tall camel.
You have sinned against Warren Buffet's family:
To me, you a like a poop from the snakiest animal.

Repent! heroes & lovers! Mormons & Scientologists!
I am alive, our land is theocracy & sound-bites.
My daughter was famous for five minutes for her monster-slaying quests,
Now she lives naked on the streets with no bananas & no rights.

Lay down, we tire of championing the Third Amendment.
Sleep & dream of breasts & dream of the pope's topiaries.
There are still worms underneath Interstate Five, awaiting their return to their covenant.
The man in all red chokes & collapses at the pub, another of hope's canaries.

Here is my daughter again, never calling except when she's broke.
4,140 angels are fighting over one muttonchop, & writing my name on their foreheads,
The Sierra Nevadas erupt into a storm of purple smoke,
Cannibals & vegetarians are interpreting from the same text, the same lyrics with different chords.

Raspberries? So processed & distorted, no bear will touch them.
I called out a Democratic campaign manager to a duel of wits,
And the aggressive motherlover smashed me in the side of the head with a truncheon.
I find refuge in the valleys of my mistress, for hours I have hidden there in her cruel armpits.

Sing for me one of your forgotten State Songs, show me, I will listen.
We decided to fund my daughter's excavation of the Ashfall fossil bed.
I could sit here savoring these various sounds, but it's late & the light-rails glisten.
We made her free her archaeologist slaves, Jefferson's dichotomies were impossible to wed.

Speaking of nuptials, I bet it would only last six months,
And it only lasted three minutes - like moon over Kennewick -
Her perceptions were enlarged by a rapper exhaling sex blunts,
Many things have been lost inside her, including origami cranes & a candlestick.

Energy crises, flatulence or scatological humor, it's all on the table,
Infinity is proven, maundering about materialism,
He is a crimson savior in the drunk tank, his horse chained up in the south stable.
Terrific, they say, & bound like a mouth over a furious chasm.

You call me a mountebank, but I am not, I am real.
Where is the plastic surgeon for these celebrities?
My daughter hardly looks like herself anymore, covered in gravy & cornmeal.
I shot her ex-husband in the face with a razor gun: even pacifists like ourselves can occasionally let down our integrities.

She will never change her last name, but she has re-christened the night
Ten thousand times, hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets cannot,
But my love is for the future of money, & Pluto's flickering gaslight,
A morning spent in Tijuana beneath an agave plant, I remember the planet.

Wake up, come back, Paul Robeson! Your lowest note is the military's highest.
The wasted red-face zombie down below the floorboards stirs,
And his brain explodes, out of the county paradigm, a sexy cowboy antichrist,
All over North America, somehow not heeded, but one teetotaling prophet concurs.

She is dead in my arms, there is nothing we can do, I cannot even weep,
I argued for weeks with her biographer about plumbing the thumb.
I must be to the asphyxiated miners as a shepherd is to his lost sheep,
And send all of your Emmas & Emilys back up where they came from.

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