Pull My Daisy

Swing My Rose
Let your skirt ride, sister;
there's no danger in Golgotha
only scarafaggi
and Mez
and the eternal comfort
of mid century glass cylindars
stuck with robin's-egg blue,
half-filled with Alka-Seltzer
and waves of sound
richocheting horns
clinking bottles
and the rantings
of the unequally yoked
while the bishop's mother
shudders on the organ
waiting to emerge
from the dilating cervix
capping her skull
in tandem with
Peter's tender orb
dozing in the warm
innocent flesh
of his cable knit
Anchorage ski hat
growing as English ivy
into the mortar
of the kindest kind of partition
beckoned into numbing night
by the dim-lit
swinging shadows of the rose.
7-12-06

A Ton Meant
In the realm of impression
in the sweaty boiler room
of my inner machinations
I am despot over
mordant personal perspective
fueled by literal credit,
a desire to stand on my own
without governmental influence,
without keeping folders
for annual evaluations
from someone who doesn't have
even the first inkling
of the effect of nematodes
on edible orange roots.
So it was called for,
it was justified and keen
in the dark-greased
underground railway
of my mind.
But
I never claimed
it would meet with the light of day
and produce daisies.
You only said you wanted it
and
I only gave you what you asked for.