Foreplay is familiar at this time of night,
my mother
in heat
like the dogs who slink around the neighborhood
nice and naked, and waiting
for their wolves to take them
right there, on the street;
my mother sleeps with a man
who is as intelligent as they get,
these days.
My mother is a dog in heat,
description to a T,
eats at five each day,
happy with her life
and swollen like the sea.

Sometimes it all feels like
erosion is so greedy,
eating at the earth three yards ahead
and I can't step back anymore;
just tonight
at my Very First Teenage Job
in a Very Nice Part of Town,
there were eight year old girls
licking at liquor store windows
imagining being grown-ups,
having sex -
feeling hot flesh,
imagining heartbreak,
vengeance like a country song.
Rolling in the tragedy
like dogs at a garbage dump.

But I wouldn't know;

I am living "the life"
and meanwhile everything else
is existing;
somewhere in jewel-encrusted Africa
a village has no feet
but they are singing.
Somewhere, someone skips two meals -
and then, close to home,
two people kiss
who are the same
and this is the part
where the world breaks down
where the ceilings smile
where God gets a headache
and cries;
this is law.
This is blue uniform,
black-sticked law.

This is where we see the sun on the other horizon
and know that we have been
wrong all along


The pyramids are a bit too far
to the right
but otherwise
it's all still
ticking.

These little victories
are celebrated religiously,
nightly

and you can almost hear it in the liquor:
whatever happened to Equality for All?

No dog has ever changed the world.
They'll never have sex
to enjoy it,
never feel sheets
beneath writhing bodies;
muzzles are not made
for love.
Everything should feel America's pastime.
There's a hole in the chest
under the fur, the breastbone
that sings in the night
and bites
but the dogs will never know.

And Michael is not a dog's name -
it is an angel's name
befitting only men of God,
obviously.


I mentioned revolution the other day
and someone laughed,
said, "no one would come"

because they're all too busy
making ladder-rungs
to reach the Father
and sit on his knees.


I'll revolt at home
where the dogs will stand up
and my mother
will wag her tail.