oracle and spawn

oracle and spawn

 

swim fishies swim

swim for life, swim for love

upstream, where the river narrows

through the cold and vexing harrows

oracle and spawn, falcon and dove

swim fishies swim fishies swim

 

sybil and pythia descend from heaven

down the hill when sternly beckoned

not yet schooled in philosophy, philology

no letters acquired in transmutation

to merge, submerge, and re-emerge

perhaps.

As it has and as it will, past pretty pink nails

and pretty pink toes

unabated the river flows

innocence and waterfalls

swim

 

instinct and spontaneous urges

a last romance, hormonal surges

on gravel beds, in snow melt rivers

muffled by the bubble and the trickle

innocence and innocents

salmon swimming, salmon thrusting

while their weary bodies rusting

be still he says, and they comply

in pleistocene valleys, fall leaves rustling,

there under the high bridge, reluctantly trusting

innocence and innocents and screams

swim

swim fishies swim

swim fishies swim fishies swim

swim and swim and swim and swim and swim

and swim and swim.

no bud left behind

No bud left behind

– george stein

 

Maybe the Navigation was doomed from the start

It wasn’t as if there was an absence of signs

But things can always be taken two, three, or more ways

And then come the subtexts and permutations

 

Memory will inevitably smooth and polish

Things said and unsaid at the last supper

But there was a photo taken by the server

Among the many regrettable things people must do these days to earn a tip.

 

Now everything they touched and

Everything they fucked up, in their way

Will elicit waves that span the distance, pass

And come back again to spite

 

Some will surmise it was impetuous

Some will observe that it was avoidable

And most people won’t really care at all

Some of them will be right

edge

 

Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

 

0a1

driver

driver

george l stein

my old honda has a bad tranny
and a psychological addiction to painkillers and lube
but whatever he survives seems to make her stronger
and weaker, and he wants to live just a little bit longer
because, they say, anything can happen, and may
and if the heart is truly like a wheel
then she wants more than anything
more than health, more than wealth
more than fresh, high-mileage pennzoil
wants someone to unlock and enter her
wants someone to wrap their fingers firmly
around her supple, stitched leather
turn the key and take her for a spin. it’s true,
sometimes life is barren, other times,
life showers one with fortune
and then sometimes it just rains.
drop the windows, harken the weather
toss the map, pump the stereo
indulge me just this once with premium ethyl, then
let’s just get this over with