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Sawing Churchbells

most men do active things,
yardwork, carwork, cellarwork,
or they fish, play golf on a
chilly day, repair shit in the
house, watch nothing on tv,
some mens' hearts are guitars,
they sing in a room. some women
flute flute, smell like babies,
tulips. they cook thru necessary
steps, recipes of repetition &
language; that burn of rapture.
kids' heads inside games,
saturated like poets,
twins of instantaneous
thrill. everglades in nepal.
gravity begins dissolving
so we lift like moon astronauts.
some people are uniquely confused,
muted by ugliness,
beauty sucking cum
& a man hrumphs
& belches over her
head or headlessness.
revenge powers her
too. skin-slit,
places cleft by
hatchets. scars
of species & collective
mind - hesitate,
dropp back,
you're on yr own.
no mass protection
will muffle the panic
at the edges of
the human crowd,

where infants perish
like garbage, where
people don't eat
enough to sustain
consciousness.
somewhere the christian
sodomy of a boy
in the old days.
rape - a girl's
blood. roadside bomb
where chunks of people
fly like exploded cows.
ed mycue once wrote a
book titled 'damage
within the community'.
obscure references
reach thru afternoon light,

& i'm laughing.

poem by Ron Androla
Added by Poetry Lover
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