Process

Coal clad by melancholia,
pigeon-toed among the crows
he stands beheaded
in Sabbath's leaden rings.
He has burned his bridges
d
o
w
n,
here among the dead men
(and Death, of course,
but who could make a

GOD

of that?).
With silver, still,
all things are possible--
it just takes a little prayer
to ash-fade greyly into
white. Doves
catch easily, though,
down-splatters yellow licked
with ticking memories of

M O R E

lingering on the lighter (side).
I sin like the golden hawk of
some guy in a linen skirt
,
he sighs, and how is this for an
identity CrIsis?
He only knows why the Greek Bird
wings
because it's something
he can swallow.

Ha ha ha

hanging on to that cocktail laughter
(it is after all the cocks
that get the tails)
he will shoot the slick,
oil in a peabird's eyes something--
passably--
like the taste of sulfur,
or maybe toxin
in its tricing gaze.

They all turn red on camera,
glaring
as if the sun had nothing
nice to say.
He swears to make that phoenix
R
I
S
E
(just like the dead men)
and set things right,
you know,
if it could just wait
for the coal to clear.

AKL 3/07