Thursday, May 26, 2011

english professorisms

A rolling pillar of half-tone smoke
half-tone grey in the tonnage
of the heavy effacing self,
heavy in the legs and shoulders,
I came crawling out of the fetor of a weasel:
I, I roared a sickness inside
and out: thunderheads piled
like poisonous sky-stone within me,
poised above my white-hot heat-death:
boiling oil, all I am is boiling oil,
heavy in the porkbelly and coinage,
potted basil plants with placid bookish
rage, thrown red clay and feathers
out into the yard, all the potshards
and lefty goatsherds to gather there
a third world mine own, a sandpainting
for my cross, a mother for my Christ,
a holy but whorish version of Mary Godmother
for you the students, 
the Christ-child born half-Jew and half-Roman
in the alphabet stew; 
no matter: we are in this soup together
now drinking the susurrant milk
of our manicultured fathermothereraser

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