Jun 15, 2004

Upon your marriage to the stuttering half-wit
        to RJ for a private conspiracy

I could propose
        that we eat rocks and cabbages
        that we cut your hair on the bus to Ontario
        and make you read Marx
I could laugh
        tearing screws from fleshy fiber
        throwing hinges overhand into the corn
        as my maniacal offering to the raccoons
        the little gods of shiny things.
I’d give you my jacket
& betroth you with a dozen hail Marys
in the dark if only you’d admit to,
you’d commit to confusion.

I’d come upon that marriage’s crap game
& sacrifice a dowry of fog if only you’d say
you’d say goodbye to the valley’s little lights
& engage
in a bus riding to the cliffs of rain
where some birds only sing
& everything ends
where everything ends
if only you’d say goodbye.

But we both know
I’m only burning effigies.

But we both know we never.
        So mea culpa to secrets unfounded
        so mea culpa to curly hair & conspiracies
        may a mea culpa
        keep the books I loaned you..
We both know.

So please
accept these flowers I’ll send.