"Piece De Resistance"

When the fork eats the spoon,
and the knife stabs
the face reflected in the plate,
dinner is over.

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"Stained Glass"

In the wooden silence
genuflecting fornications
seek penance and
false-toothed idealists
throw grubsteaks on the offering plate.

light a candle for the sinners
light a fire

Self-pronounced prophet, parable-speaking Protestant
preaches his diatonic dogma,
disemboweling indiscreetly.

supplicate
congregate
the world looks better through stained glass

light a candle for the sinners
set the world on fire

Falsities
Falsities
Falsified factualities;
All sitting like eager sponges,
soaking up the tertiary realities of life.

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"Hotel Hallucinogen"

Lying in bed contemplating
tomorrow, simply meditating,
I stare into a single empty
spot, and I notice a penetrating
of two eyes looking up and
down and at various odd angles
secretly inspecting me; and I
feel my stare tugged away
from the blank screen in
front of my eyes and directed
at the eight empty beer cans
forming an unintentional pyramid.

And I close my lids to think--
How many hours have passed
since I constructed such an
immaculate edifice of tin?
Or did I create it all?
Was it the watchers?

I open my eyes and return my stare to the pyramid.
But the pyramid has now
become a flaming pyre, and
the face within is my own.
What is this prophecy that
comes to me like a delivery boy,
cold and uncaring of its message,
asking only for recognition?
But I will not fall prey
to this revelation of irrelevance
I will not recognize this perversion
of thought.

I will not.

I hurl my pillow at the
infernal grave, as if to save my
eyes from horrific understanding,
and I hear the hollow clang
of seven empty beer cans,
not eight--
Was it fate that left
one to stand?
Why does this solitary tin soldier
stand in defiance to my
pillow talk of annihilation?

Then, for some odd, idiotic,
most definite enigmatic reason
the can begins to erupt in a barrage of
whimpering cries.
Does he lament because his
friends and family are gone
or that he has no one
with which to spawn?
They were gone. . .

But no, that's not the reason.
It is a baby's cry of his mother's
treason.
The screaming fear of abandonment.
And this wailing, screaming, whining
causes the dead cans to rise
and I can't believe my eyes,
that this concession of
beverage containers is chanting
in a cacophony of shallow rebellion
to my Doctrine of Annihilation
that was discussed in my
Summit of the Pillow (which is now
lost among the stamping feet of the
aluminum-alloy anarchists).

I am afraid, afraid of these
cans, these nihilistic rebels.
As the one approaches-the baby cryer,
I suppose my fear now
escalates, constructing a wall
around my bed, trying to shut
everything out
but without a doubt
the cryer casually climbs what
I thought was a Great Wall
not unlike the one in Berlin.

He begins to speak.

His words flow cryptically from
the hole in his head
like funeral music: deep, resonant,
and sorrowful.

He says to me: "You must
surrender to your dreams it's just.
We sit all day planning for your attendance
and upon arrival you
very impolitely
ignore us."

In awe, I nod involuntarily
and he closes my eyes.

No.

He gives me a pair of aphrodisiac sunglasses,
and I fall asleep in the shade.

Asleep in a field of hyacinth and jade.

When I crawl out of my sleep
I get up,
my hair in a tangled mess of golden locks.
I enter the kitchen,
and go to the icebox.
I pull out a single can of beer,
and as I begin to drink
I hear

The weeping of an abandoned infant.