WEBVTT

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The castle.

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It's as if all of them,
archangels, apostles,

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and the crowned
and bleeding Christ

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are blown in a wind of
light, broken glass,

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and fractured color.

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God presides over the
killing of the holy man.

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His mother wears the dead
body as if she were the cross.

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I choose St George
for my patron.

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The necessary killing of the
beast a two tiered project.

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First, the sword
raised again and again

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to pierce reptilian muscle,
then the brush and chisel

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picked up to sanctify
the slaughter.

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The limbic brain and
its attendant serotonin

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and oxytocin turning
violence into art.

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I choose chamber music filling
the parlor of the Lobkowicz

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palace.

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The first violinist a thin
young man, sandpaper of day

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old beard, tuxedo trousers,
shirt, tie, no jacket.

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He leans into Dvorak's
lento, the long narrow bruise

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on his neck, a flag I think
his lover has left, unexplored

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territory.

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Until I see the
stained glass or two

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from the neck of the
second violinist,

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a woman with
porcelain tight face.

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Though her features
soften when she

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meets the eyes of the cellist,
melody echoing between them.

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The instrument has wounded them.

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Its gently warped edge
the lover to which

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they've bared their necks.

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I choose lunch with the
Hollywood makeup artist,

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a student in my
class, and we sit

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in the sun of the Poet's Cafe
eating red cabbage, lentils,

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crumpled sheep cheese, then
strudel a life of lists nothing

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ever complete.

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Yes, there was Turkish coffee,
maybe white beans and tomatoes

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and we gossiped about
the bad behavior

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of the star, the sex goddess
stepping from her trailer.

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Is anyone going to get
me my fucking cappuccino.

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Because we love to know
the artifice behind the art

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as if any salt
mouthed hard ass broad

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could become the
cultivated field

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where a God would want
to plant his seed.

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I can make a great black
eye, my lunch mate boasts.

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I can do stitches, her
eyebrows sculpted sharp

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as a blackbird's wing.

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When a new child
comes everything

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seems strange to him.

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What, on the ground
I have to lie?

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Eat black potatoes, no, not I.

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