james gendronnerve_bios_3.html


The trees are upside-down chandeliers.

The light engreens.

Here, on this balcony, everyone is pardoned.

O regret!  It is the unwanted dog

that follows one home from the wound

of a stabbed person, from a wall

where one has chained and beaten

a person for no reason.  Many people die

without a miracle.  Many die in hospitals

deformed by years of crippling endless loves

that end in Texas.  No one has ever died

where I now stand, but disease takes many in its dark

sack and they simply vanish.  Everyone is swept

under the sea eventually, and everyone comes back,

but backwards, and is lost; and I’ve been angry

at the resurrected, their big eyes, their teeth;

and I have taken everything from them

because I’m sick.

The Sealed Church

I have dug my own grave with my mouth.

Here I am, eating you, full of outer space;

growing feathers, but inwards, and it hurts.

I walk by myself to the desert and beat up angels.

“Slave makers!”  Why is our suffering

so important to them?  They must be insane,

or so remote from our reality

they have simply lost the thread.

So I push them down, and kick them for an hour.

And I tell them the following: