Tuna Fishing
He is the milky way beyond the water,
tuna fishing where the Greek gods of the sixties
profit from the cruelty of human kindness, chanting
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, where the
broken-armed David clutches kraken and demon alike.

Savonarola is in the nightclub
damning any woman wearing any color
other than white.

The sisters of holy courtesy make love
to Cesare in the convent of convenience;
they dream of the latest fashion statement
and marvel at the way he mounts his horse
in full armor.

James Dean in the kaleidoscopic night
vision of transcribed novellas on the silvery screens crumble
'neath his ribs.

Xibalba as a poem, a destination near
highway 61where the Amazonian women
a thousand wombs from me ride the steppes
in silent kinescope.

Iphigenia in the Taurus, with her eyes
to the sky before Agamemnon sunk the
knife into her chest.

Beau smoking a cigarette
beneath the white wick of the moon.

The veined buttock of the muse; unequivocal
versions of Lorca – the delicate Spaniard,
and the prehistoric guido.

The Jews behind the barbed wire fences,
begging for food at the White House,
they will tell the news affiliates that their
ancestors built the pyramids, they will
say that Moses warned you all.

Judas via Persian rug, role-plays
Cleopatra to Jesus' Caesar.

Neptune's kingdoms of daughters
who found the young fledgling Aphrodite
when she came from the sea foam and combed
her hair while she dreamed of love and rose
her eyebrow slowly at the thought of her own beauty
while Botticelli watches.

The fish as a symbol revolution.

Napoleon dreaming of Saint Petersburg in
the summer when the stars form the shape
of conquest; and the Gonfalonier is a dead
specter in his tepid cup of tea.

Sonata for Sonora; the immortal
beloved, and the cult of aria's
for dead women and their sculptures.

The father is being raped by the priest
as a child, before she was born in the honeycomb
sin of her heritage.

The water is lined, like notebook paper;
it is made for her write on, and the classical
gods curve their hips, exposed penis' and
the new gods tell the girls that they are only
as good as their ribs made them.

The rib is a fib, like the tuna fish, trident-knifed
gutted on canvas and stuffed raw into our hypothetical
minds.