it’s the body of no
like the body of Christ
and I’m gonna swallow it.
I’m feeling it on my tongue and
letting it dissolve, its two dull papery letters
drying up in the heat of my mouth.
you can’t be a bon vivant with me in phoenix
because they had dust storms in july
and the plumes were like an atomic bomb
to our love.
I suck on terrible words here;
you don’t like the Coyotes anyway.
each season it becomes more difficult
and then what happens
is that there is a cup full of wafers
and the cup runneth over
and it’s no time between sundays
and all the faces are like moons,
and too many –
because you’re worried about Bisphenol As in canned soup
and the woman with too many children.
what kind of harvest are you?
I figure we can take no more than three, at most,
and if you start seeing that many moon-faces,
it must mean your vision is fucked.
so let’s not refer to the seasons anymore
as a way of noting change.
we can’t live in pink tights
and without interest in politics.
if we refer to the seasons at all,
let it be as a last resort
when we’ve lost every other sense.
it’s only on the ice
that violence seems like justice.