Jacquerie
No attempt at the picturesque,
another peasant revolt has left the orchard
bare. No amount of telekinesis can put
pears back on the branch. No pleasure
in restraint, to enjoy is to abuse.
To repine at what could not be helped.
Give a pearl to the man whose incantations
protect the divers. The image of the century’s
first martyr is quickly capitalized upon.
The phoenix does not appear, nor does
the river offer up its chart. The fox is drawn out
of hiding, to investigate the violin sonata taking shape
in his woods. The siesta is a luxury free to the wealthy
& destitute alike. Dulled by the day’s hunting,
larks in the graveyard provide a diversion. Gather
in the parlor for the mummy-unwrapping to start.
It’s anyone’s guess what we’ll wind up with.
Sorry Don’t Feed The Bulldog
Be first at the finish line or a bullet
will find you there. Supper is served
at seven, as the freight lumbers by. A bountiful
board, complete with compote & tumblers.
Bring out the asparagus, grown in beds
sewn with sheep’s horns. Eat a peck of
salt with the innkeeper before divulging
your identity. He knows Enochian &
wears a sleeveless reason. This language is
paper-thin, yet pliable; able to bear the weight
of fruit.
Bear the thought of a winter
so cold, the wealthy burned books
in their chamber pots for warmth. These melting
memories are distractingly lighter than those
which have remained solid. Under the black flag,
a giving kitchen heals all woes.
Fetch a Methuselah;
we’ve traveled the length of the Yangtze for this
soft turtle. These floors have seen a hundred years
of boot fashion. What we need is a breakfast of bacon
& fennel, in honor of St. Lucy. Bring your own fork.
“See whether raw or roasted I make the better meat,”
said St. Lawrence, broiled alive on the gridiron.
Soldiers, save my face, aim at my heart.
Feel the flowers
growing. The most holy kind of fire has burned
the hundredth sacred Yew in this peaceable kingdom.
Man can make gods by the dozen, but not a single worm.
I’ve left forests made wretched by our music.