spring thunder

the sound of springtime is shouting

the kingfisher

last skein of ice on the river
single silent kingfisher fat
and blue on a bare branch
humpty dumpty sat on a wall
humpty dumpty had a great fall
these bits and bobs of Osiris
are scattered about, what a crisis
his wife Isis she came, what a 
terrible game— and all the king’s
horses and all the king’s men 
cannot put him together again.
so we fall we fall from the ledge
we fall we fall from the egg
tumble into time and history 
one to many, one way street
no way out pal, the cells split 
and split the egg is spilt all
over the sidewalk & all the king’s
horses and all the king’s men—
well there’s your problem, eh 
you trust a job like this to horses
and men? Isis did collect her 
husband after all, patched him
right up, copulated & conceived
a new god, patted Osiris on the 
ass, sent him down to the 
underworld for a long nap. 
that kingfisher pushes off
from the branch, does not fall 
does not shatter, cackles on
down the river, flying— 

the heron

curse these hideous daffodils
and lord have mercy there go
the bloody robins again
this morning, every morning
every afternoon, a horde of them
see-sawing across the garden
stealing my worms. must I submit
to such mediocrity, these little 
glass-eyed bureaucrats, bills
my square house? remind myself 
(yet again) how lucky to be alive 
not merely figuratively but oh god 
my hungers have never been 
wholesome—sister you beg for
peace and immediately start
hexing the robins, why not
submit to what you prefer, to what 
will happen anyway. look! the 
heron arcs over the glittering 
river bend, croaking and 
prehistoric, catastrophic 
shocking beauty, happy now?  

violencia 

love thy captor / love thy killer
love the blood / upon my pillow
love thy tender / torture touch
i've gone too far / i've seen too much

—but you
did not conquer
this land
and i
did not fall by
your hand—

you called my demons by their secret names
taught them to dance in your wicked games
but who's been feeding them all these years
with blood and sweat and fire and fear

...querida muerte
de mi corazón
no me desampares 
de tu protección...

spring thunder

the emotion of springtime is anger. the sound of springtime is shouting. the first tender shoot of a seedling is delicate and small but must also contain the fury of survival. it must rage toward the light, pushing through soil, moving rocks, swallowing nutrient, outdoing competitors, reaching, fighting, striving. growth is always violent. with a thunderous thrust, a baby chick pushes open its wings and cracks out of the shell. those who are not strong enough, not ferocious enough, die in their tiny tomb. spring: the world coated in a fine dusting of ejaculate, all of us delirious from the pollen drop kicking us, coating the cars, houses, our skin in its sticky neon green patina, the goldfinches fluttering madly fucking midair, the cataclysm of blossoms and bees, nature in her raw flowered aggression, declaring goddamn it I will live

.
the water buffalo

I heave and lug
my sorrow around
like a water buffalo
Once it was elegant
fit in an alligator-skin
cigarette case, and 
later, in a stylish
day bag to toss
over my shoulder
But now it has heft
—and utility! this
buffalo tills fields
pulls carts, carries
travelers, chews cud
with pleasure spits;
its shit fertilizes
the crops that feed
the family. It moves 
earth makes earth 
and yes finally will
disintegrate into earth
too: so, do not worry
my darling, my sweet
love, this is not your
inheritance, I give
you something so
tremendously light
it will last forever