Again, a spring in the step of boys
headed to meet their maker.

A swagger, a darkness sprung
with the obsession of flies.

Sunflower seeds litter god’s front porch,
the yard overrun with dandelions,

yellow starbursts picked over for the pinks.
Again, snow. Angels. Girls named Hope and Faith,

their braids capped with black and gold beads,
glimmer of fireflies affixed with rubber bands.

The stork is actually a blue-footed
booby. The babies. Come alive.

Summer and Sally Walker
swaddled in brown liquor.

Johnnie takes his spirits neat,
ice uncalled for at winter’s end.

                                                                                                   *

Why must I chase the C.R.E.A.M.?
‘Cause cat rules everything around me,

young blood in young world of
pussy-whipped buffoons. I see you;

can you see me watchin’ you lovin’ it?
Whether by microscope or telescope,

my body of work is accustomed to gaze.
An in-between state contributes greatly

to a country of longing. When in flux,
I have a strong constitution.

I no longer have a home in the present,
my sleeping bag splayed on Dante’s fire

escape. The circles of hell are a Spenserian
stanza, a rhyme scheme of Uhh! Na nah na nah.

When judgment comes, ain’t nowhere to run.
April snow is how time disciplines its children.

                                                                                                   *

Pride cometh before. The fall.
The redheaded oaks made our

blood boil. I don’t believe god
was ready to call me home, but

now was as good a time as any.
When asked my regrets,

I just remembered, remembered
freedom was life’s great lie,

remembered body is another
word for cage, remembered

night knew my name before
I ever had reason to fear.

Some days are measured by caesuras,
some hours by snakes in the grass.

Only a foolish king would
mistake the forest for the trees.

                                                                                                   *

This is how we are reborn:
come resurrection Sunday,

we pour out. A trail of Cadillacs,
rabbit feet and gator teeth hung

from rearview mirrors. The trunks
thumping so loud it’s enough

to wake the dead, to dust the dirt
from shoulders, to make room

for the elbows and capsized knees.
In the end we knew what was ahead.

Postapocalypse was our present tense.
We sold key chains at the pearly gates,

light-up toys, and airbrushed T-shirts
one for ten or three for twenty. The hustle

never dies, it just changes, and the more
things change the more they stay the same.