Game Run To Ground

Samsara to Hell
with Virgil I fell
and talked with a man
upturned headfirst in shit.
He gurgled a reply
when I asked him why
but I ignored it
to ponder my own sins instead.
Enemy in the mirror
he is jealous of you.
For three years
he marveled at what you do to you.
When at last he failed
to match your skill
he picked up a gun
and said, "Fine
I'll just kill you
and see how it's done."
Snakes in the grass
should not seek one out;
when they do,
they mimic a human shout.

Animal Sinlessness

Costume changes and consequences --
I am saved by my enemy's
lies he tells himself of me.
I correct them compulsively:
murder versus suicide,
the Ides of March
have thunder thighs
and never stop heralding
their approach.
The man-size cockroach
my charge swore
leapt out at us
hissed to disappear
behind a Cheshire grin.
Gunfire and the din
of inexpert punishment:
Am I the final teacher of insults?
The only adult
in a room filled with children?
Anguish and pain
as delectation.
Is hope writhing
in the bottom of a box
the sociopath stores his masks in?
Pandora snaps it shut and swoons --
I've yet to see a man on the moon
and too soon knew the lash
interstellar travelers in a flash
wielded; they stopped short
when this white trash done sung his tune.
How many died upon being told
that help is on the way?
"No pun intended,"
sneered the man
who put those victims
where he should have been.

Obon

It's festival day: paper
lanterns strung above
the hall. Names
are recited, children
fidget in the pews.
Oshoko, incense
and candles for those passed
on into the Pure Land.
In the kitchen, starched
ladies in madras
aprons ladle somen
into bowls.
The altar gleams with gold.
Sandalwood wafts through
the dojo as an old man
clasps his hands --
gassho. He bends
his shining bald head in prayer.

Tenderloin #4

Perhaps it's a point of pride:
the ability to look another in the eye
and say, "I am who I am,
no more and no less."

What goes before the fall?
The know-it-all boy
in t-shirt and scarf
sings a song on the brick

Pavement of the sidewalk.
A choral response from a playground
rings out through the town.
He flashes the devil's horns

And thinks, "Rock and roll."
The King in his own head
knows he rules this life
with neither scepter nor crown.

Of Songs and Sirens

Existence screams out,
the void which is not.
An echo, to silence, replies,
"You are wrong."
He totally denies
his removal from God
and says he is closer to Him.
Awareness is more grand
than the twisted place
between one and zero.
Are there infinite riches
or tombstones for muses?
A boy crowned with stag's horns
may be tamed with psychic machines --
a cylindrical brass helmet donned
pieces him back together again.
He descends into singularity.
A tiny pinprick, a splinter
of light, to flash once,
then disappear eternally.

Alzabo Suppertime

They came by ones and twos and threes
to feed on the brains of a family:
a chunk out of Grandma,
a nibble on Timmy.
The whole household will speak gorgeously;
little fragments of Mom's voice
emanate from razor-toothed mouths
set in great big shaggy white heads
that whirl with fragments of souls with no choice.
Fodder for beasts, they bled.
The ursine aliens' eyes glowed red.

The Sacrifice

Dive headlong into magma-red rage.
Rock gently; a fat Jew body
floats in the Dead Sea,
big as a house, in black
knickers, black brassiere,
spitting fire as she goes.
Oh Bubbe, steal my dream
as Marines phase back
into alignment.
Rip me to shreds
with bullets for stray
thoughts I've entertained.