Steep in blood: you don’t belong, so
be pushed back into the sea: the pinnacle is
belief in God when all else fails: it is salt, it is
red and blue, it is wet, & far too long and deep.
Iceland—what a happy place—free of
concentration, camping in many
seasons of green (deceiving name)—moss
stains the ground in the shape of
Virgin Marys—see them bring
to life the stones, when weeks before
the island was made, it was all
dead like Jesus.
The law must be beyond
the Law—mine is the law
of all people, not the law
of wolves, but the law
of born men—it is the law of
a big, fat baby, this roly-
poly little man (or woman) &
it can be spelled or spoken in
heavy diapers, baby farts, belches
when you pat my back & make it known
you are my friend or mother.
In the Fast-Mart I saw them
declare a state
of emergency, when all the peas
broke free, rolled down
the aisle, and Bubba
turned them under feet into
a mush, a paste to stop them.
In those days even the menu
was deep-fried, variations of ham &
biscuits hung from chandeliers made
of antlers. Last week we saw the
same light, sitting in
a river, filtering the
milt of fish & other
amphibians not knowing love.
Niche occupancy: I used to be
just Wonder Bread in polka dots; now
I sing in whole grains, make my nest
in pita pockets. Once life was bound to
the white, the spongy, the enriched bleached
awe of a singular plastic bag. Now that I am
free, the burden of choice has been
turned, over to the great blue sea.