Deity Landscape
A woman throws a rock inside a box
inside a state like Wisconsin inside
a skirt hoop. How many wives must he
claim for us to recognize his homelessness.
I’m tired of his shit country, the dung truck
of ego stinking up the poetry landfill.
Of course I am tonguing the lord’s tongue
and of course a woman’s rock lands
at my clenched feet like a leather book
like a beautiful plague like a—like a rock.
I want to alarm the poets of America
by stating frankly your mentions of god
are not shocking or inventive and when
you live in a city don’t speak of the minefields
you’ve never sweat in. Hello, deity landscape,
meet the poets who’ve invoked you.
Have you ever watched a man weep
at the notion his art won’t be remembered.
Aw. I have—it’s wonderful. Like
the body of an albatross dissolved
to its ingested history of plastic, such is
the wonder of man and his cute immortality.
A woman cooked the internet in her kitchen
just so I would hate the man who just emailed me.
Suddenly I’m in a world of horses and red again,
and we write against the materials we love
to consume. I have a job, it’s to sit in this chair
and dissolve my flesh into mangy feathers,
it’s to sit in the landfill, leaf through banana peels
and windshield glass and crushed codeine,
the adolescent boss of godless death.
Throw a rock and a rock inside a box.
A woman throws a rock inside a box
inside a state like Wisconsin inside
a skirt hoop. How many wives must he
claim for us to recognize his homelessness.
I’m tired of his shit country, the dung truck
of ego stinking up the poetry landfill.
Of course I am tonguing the lord’s tongue
and of course a woman’s rock lands
at my clenched feet like a leather book
like a beautiful plague like a—like a rock.
I want to alarm the poets of America
by stating frankly your mentions of god
are not shocking or inventive and when
you live in a city don’t speak of the minefields
you’ve never sweat in. Hello, deity landscape,
meet the poets who’ve invoked you.
Have you ever watched a man weep
at the notion his art won’t be remembered.
Aw. I have—it’s wonderful. Like
the body of an albatross dissolved
to its ingested history of plastic, such is
the wonder of man and his cute immortality.
A woman cooked the internet in her kitchen
just so I would hate the man who just emailed me.
Suddenly I’m in a world of horses and red again,
and we write against the materials we love
to consume. I have a job, it’s to sit in this chair
and dissolve my flesh into mangy feathers,
it’s to sit in the landfill, leaf through banana peels
and windshield glass and crushed codeine,
the adolescent boss of godless death.
Throw a rock and a rock inside a box.