cedar top goddesses from phil’s sawmill
The cedar goddesses lie down on saw-horses
debarked by rain smooth like movie stars
sinuous knotty tops sloped with open eyes
we lock gazes forged in what I’d like to think
is inter-regnum lust but is only my artsy awe.
The sawmiller’s wife was just about to toss them to the fire.
They weren’t good enough for lumber. Their fragile skin
accomodated no smoothing tool. She gave them to us
gladly moments before tossing them into the pyre.
They should make me a fine arbor for sitting in to think.
Is art worth saving anything from fire?
Or they’ll frame another something no less tragic.
Maybe I’ll ice the pond and slide on them, let’s say,
a woodophile atop those eyes that do not look away.
ozark sonnet
i like to live where (human) sensibilities are still
shockable though nature sees to its own business
adding winter stash to its wank tank its jack sack
jack please take that to the bank keep the change
only a pine tree can teach you what a pine tree is (basho)
but any particular pine tree has an encrypted password
that depends on what it is you want to know from it
every degree of curiosity requires an equivalent hard skin
from the writer who thinks herm want to know
and is tough enough to go on when the pine asks
what are humans for. the obvious answer (to the pine) is
this book is made from pine. that’s me. so take back
your questions people words are cysts give back my sap
all philosophers are fascists looking for cheap coffins
