In hell,
In hell there's one
Season. It's called cold
Cruel oatmeal but it's never
Too soon to wear white slacks,
White hats,
White socks, white jocks.
Sundays we fling our javelins
Into the mystery down by the river
While the feted ferries come in. Toot Toot.
We're concerned
Less with accuracy than distance.
May this toss take me elsewhere, may
The breeze off Fire Lake carry, may these boots
Move me and if not, make me happy here.
Brian's Brain
Science insists and how
are we to disagree?
The alien topographies
the brain displays
resemble stems of Caribbean coral
or the pockmark surface of the moon,
which in turn resembles Craters
National Park—but that's comparing
two halves of one brain.
It can be flat in Idaho,
and where it is is sometimes stacked
with volcanic rock, piles of black books
forgotten among the library of trees.
Studies show the wind alone
rarely courses the gorges and scours
the gulches of the western desert,
our desiccated inland sea,
home to Atomic City,
poor Shoshone.
There is raven and crow,
eagle and sparrow,
and like pharaoh the radiant
vulture reigns over the earth
and its vast crevasses,
the furrowed flesh of gray matter.
If there is salt in our blood,
it's a vestige of the sea. If
there's mud in our marrow,
it's magma's memento. If
pottery chips and coral bits
litter the desert floor, then
there are more mirages than oases.
A vulture rides the thermals. Up
ahead, the sun.
