Lucifer Outside the Cathedral

Sometimes stray dogs bark.
He isn't made of Kodak paper,
the tin can in his right hand
smells of Botticelli's turpentine.

Tossed coins glint in mid-air:
there was a time Christ sent him
a glittery Valentine every year.
Now the confessionals are empty.

He sold his tail to the butcher;
sometimes he smells phantom
broth, feels teeth gnaw
cartilage from his last vertebra.

His horns hang in a private
library between a moose head
and curare-tipped spear: he never
received the money by mail.

On cold nights, he sleeps under
gossip columns, flattened cartons
labelled this side up or fragile,
torn A-line skirts, maple leaves.

Sometimes a drunk policeman
kicks him awake. He walks the block
then returns to his resting place:
God can't be lunching out forever.

Deflowering the Ghazal

Would you liken petals to a streetwalker's nocturnal lips
as you force your way inside, erupt against latex?

Sleek-stemmed roses do not exist. Just stainless blades,
what the woman next door used to debone her wrists.

My heart quaked when he slipped a hibiscus behind my ear.
His kisses swarmed red ants that devoured my neck.

On the way to the altar, grooms step on beds of lawn
violets, stiletto heels impale brokendown blooms.

He undressed her among wild daisies. As her buttocks rubbed
against crushed grass, her mouth embraced the infinite O.

Deep Freeze

And all this time we ran the joke
about the man buried seven feet
in snow. The flashing digital
sign over the bar fizzled out.

Out of a hundred cocktails,
only 1% of the ice cubes was
sucked by laughing minors.

A foreigner insisted that trees
shed their leaves in winter,
that an avalanche can taste of
frozen aloe and unthawed children.

This is a tropical country
where no one believes in flying
saucers or copyright laws.

Live music is inevitably loud,
like that rush of cocaine up
nostrils, or skis free-soaring
in the air without feet.

Somewhere in every murder story,
a human hand lies thumbs down
in the walk-in freezer
and a blonde starts screaming.

Pigeons on Barb Wire

The one near the window
tucks its head under the wing.

I close my eyes and hear
its heart beat. Frenzy always
has something to do with birds.

If I rise, my hands could
pounce like clammy tarantulas.

But they've turned black.
Gangrene works sub rosa, veins
reduced to burnt wires.

Everything feels like today,
the same hour and minute:

The gestapo who shot my son,
the train ride that made me
think of canneries, slimed fish.

Here in the ward, I'm in a tub
of ice. My phantom limbs itch.

A Question of Middle-Age Roots

Temples are God's roadside motels
where rooms fall into disuse.

He refuses to acknowledge net loss,
thinks cockroaches are hamsters gone bald.

Whatever made me accept this role
of manager? He never answers my calls.

It would have been more bearable
if he were busy playing bad golf.

They say he's moved on to villas
stalked by Lucifer in snappy maid's uniform.

Or else, still hybridizing petunias
in Eden for natural serpenticide.

Whichever. I am the one who contemplates
windows, faces the mirror daily.

It's hard to watch temples stripped of life,
hairline receding like faith after baptism.