(wednesday)

wind in the sails, bottle half-full
twotime screaming dogface bitch
briny threads stretch toward the wood
emblems of these shattered days
amidst the leaves so soft as corpses
ears before they are interred.
streets are speaking under lights
bodies fill them day and dark
and move toward a lonely goal,
the piston churns, the springs recoils.
briny threads stretch toward the wood
six days to get to Galveston.

				horizons swelling eyes in tears
				sun descending teams of gods
				sailor here i send my ship
				unbowed alone beneath sharp stars
	three golden earrings under sails
	yet one another given carelessly
	rope sings in the breeze,
	wind off the repentant sea.

raped by generations unthinking of sorrows
left in the wakes of their heedless decay
now that the calf is dead, hope-filling slaughter
we are inheritors of the rainslapped day.
needles tossed in the surf
our teeming mausoleums
proudest, useless toys,
drifting earth like pariah convoys,
alien to nature, more secrets concealed,
than every child masturbator
blinded in his sanity.
				   s.r.p.
[|"".""|]