To hold the holy water, dig a well,
To keep the notes in check, compose a score.
Heaven’s for the good guys; send the rest to hell.
Pay out your tithe, but not a nickel more.
Iambic meter holds the words together
The way an iron stove holds in the flame.
The airs and seas contain the planet’s weather.
Wild things are known, we think, when called by name.
Bras and jockstraps mash the flesh in place
As locks and dams are built to stem the flood.
We like to sit refined, without a trace
Of sweat or piss or passion, shit or blood.
Then what will happen when it is our turn
To flow, to sing, to burst, to give, to burn?



This was my first published poems–in the now defunct journal “Amelia”, in 1995

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