The Family Couch

I jerk off with my dog’s brush, handle just thick

enough to please. I sit in my bedroom, molting,

and wonder under a gristly bulbed light about

the severed lifting of a bridge, what

happens when that corroded saw from the sky

comes down and hacks the bridge off before it can hit

land, that empty pyre in pious flames, burning nothing.

Goddream (1932)

A dream: god got into the sea

and set it alight.

Not fire, fury-- when I record

“fury” I fight the urge

to write “drown”-- O hell, yes,

I mean love I mean drown I mean

Kitty I mean Bluebell I mean

Mississippi I mean shift I mean love

I mean god and ocean so far away

from this damned spot,

right here.