Cooing

I’m nothing but an albino
Pigeon:
Head cocked and cocking,
Scavenging for crumbs.

Proud as a peacock am
I:
Though I forage beneath
Your feet and coo.

Sometimes I’ll gobble like a
Turkey:
To confuse the passers-by,
But don’t really fool them.

All the other pigeons hate me—
Jealous:
‘Cause they know I’m better
And sometimes pass for a dove.

Atlas

A table and four chairs,
Twenty legs together.
No ground, no reason, no logic,
Just legs: Just legs.

No soul, no heart, no head,
No arms to hold
No hands to touch.

Existent in the capacity
To hold that which
Can be touched, held;
Can touch, hold.

Twenty legs that promise
To hold the world
On their thighs.

Damn’d Selfs

Pushing up against the
Barriers of absolution,
The jagged razor scrapes.

Barren slivers, chards
Of splintered mirrors
Expose the thousand selfs.

And the selfs escape
Into primordial anonymity:
Into galactic ooze.

The wrinkled balsam—
embraced by callous arms—
Liberates absolute power.

And finally the dam gives way
And the deluge of fractured selfs
Converge upon the deaf horizon

And flood the thirsty plain.