In The End Surrounded By Boys

You really can’t shut me up
Though you are me and that is our business
Dishing the light out to the cats
I’ve got two Roberts on my desk this morning
Fabled eyeballs
These Roberts are good
Though there’s a bad Robert just down the street
And I can hear him eating again
Wobbling all up on my youth
Taking an ineffective ride downtown
With ineffective affections about all the effects of things
And their effects
Damn bugs
This is my writing time please shut up
This time is for belonging
To the right kind of space program
You really can’t shut the attic door
The spiders have grown too big
And know too much about mortality
Bad men may try to fix their ghost
With a soul patch
I’m packing up the whole mythology
And letting the bad Robert ruin it
Then to the audience
Slouch harder
Laugh at the big men

Freedom For Boys

The rooster returns
Sagged toward sorry
Intention not to be
A normal any
Day chicken in the sleet.
The desert’s winter imposter
Glows nastily as a clam
Beneath the continent.

Ten thousand years will give
Sleep a final comprehension. Get on
Without this cage around your brain
Or your fever—You can practice my religion
Using any simple instrument. For one
President glistens in the backdrop of all
The chapel’s paintings. Good morning char
On the roofs,

Ample villains
Winding like anguished branches
In the sold out street, tonight’s party
Totalizing all that early corruption
We ought not be afraid of—the infiltration
Of the old wisdom in the young, ample, villainous heart.

Lay these greyhounds to rest. I’m late.
Extraordinarily late. Painting
Like religion is the visual art of that
Well-known American boredom
To which I dress
Disastrously in the gore of faith.

Our dangerous non-nature
Expands yet these disfigured angels
May scribble their own names at the top of the country.
Home is impossible.
The story is that you are here,
Free to do what we like. The angels only
Sing to deafen
When I leave the room.

Roses are misread
As violets in the nothing town
Where you at last let go
And dogs have a sad feeling
For private reasons.
Emptiness grows like a blanket
Built with the end of good
Sunlight. This is what it means
To be no one—We’ll go
Our many separate ways from here.