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| Duane Vorhees |
A tone imp/ending:
at one
turned a new leaf
in time for my fall
fetal/fatal
we are
the beat between
eluded my shepherd
to be found by leopards
therapy brings
the blank
within
thErapist
doorways of neighbors
blocked by sabers
getting every massage
at the hands of misogynists
pile/driver process
piled/river chaos
divide the warrant and the judge
from the general and the war/rant
a nano decides…
Atone!
ALL HISTORY IS PROPHECY
Blind men at dusk predict
the next day will bring light.
No past dies completely.
its bone cements my wall,
and its ash congregates
in these porcelain dolls.
All prophecy
is history –
bounty or blight.
All of our tomorrows
are mysteries today.
Yes, “the future looks bright”
--there’s too much glare to see
the soonest cloud bringing
the silver and the stain.
I’m in Hiroshima, just waiting for the plane.
THE COCK HANDLER
I prepare the sacrament. Gingerly my forefinger-thumb probes protuberant spurs, a search for hidden tenderness. I work my way carefully up and hold the head with firm caress, stem it side to side, invoke it's beauty's legend. Sudsy hands stretch upright the cock and then begin soft pistonic strokes till consecration is complete. Then I dash the pecker with clear water and toss.
Into the pit thuds the rooster. The unreflective mirrors of its eyes pierce implacably the depthlessness of the other rooster’s eyes. Their twin immobility holds the entire vicinity in breathless pause.
The pair of rusted springs await fury’s sudden unleash.
