Pulling at the tender flesh between his legs, with matted hair of cuckoo's-nest,
in the stall behind the manger, stunk of the sulphurous bogs of Catalan,
the phlegmatic cat-head deaf mute jerks till he comes on laps
of the mockers, everywoman sneering through
clenched teeth to unbosom the Virgin Mary. He seeks
the G-Spot of his other half, in turgid cold of the
barn's mid-morn flood of light. Dry brains and hard belly
of the stomach of a ruminant, rat-pawed at birth,
the dimwitYowill focus on... those of us who watch.
To purge his malediction, the enema's sharpened
razor-toothed to dog shark, eviscerating pus
and oily medicines congealing in a drop upon the cut.
And someone laughs from behind, unreasoned out beyond
the Piranesi daisy chains and mooning of the stars.
For another of the civil wars, it's bacillus that's found
inside the lovely tonal catechisms of the mourners
in scenes like these. We irreligious
climb Mt. Walpurgis, just off from the
sierras of the charcoal-master from Madrid.
Opal eyes of the owl flood ague onto
the straw-green hair of the impostor,
the artist who imitates the deaf and dumb
in order to delicately step up the ladder
to the other world. Faithful and unseen,
the dog of the mocked man shivers
and suffers the fleas. These tiny flea bites
are the only vocables to mark what
he's doing, pulling at the B of bliss,
affirming the worth of what's left.