Night thunder arrives. Occult spacecraft descend,
hurl giant underbellies of sound downward.
Climactic events galvanize grouting.
The next boom is distant,
other places are scorched or illuminated
by quixotic hosts -
you never know with astral mythology.
The crackling of flaming grasshoppers,
then on the roof, a thud and flopping of fins,
as armored coelacanth are thrown out of their skins.
Only the menstrual blood of virgins
can ward off showers of frogs.
Parallel lines collide; stunned pigeons drop
from the darkness.
From upturned trashcan lids, Venus is seen
rising from her scallop.
She is sexually charged, triumphantly aglow.
About her, the fallen twitch.
Child, go home.
Your home is nowhere?
Then go back to the womb.
No mother's womb?
Go to father's semen.
Your father is nowhere?
Go to mum's tubes.
Is the egg there barren?
Then, little one, flow away
in her menstrual blood
just as her longing
goes down the drain -
go that way too.
Let the girl be.
Child, go home.
I awoke in a kitchen
on a pillow of aprons;
my body covered with bruises
from a mob of angry patrons.
Then I came to in my bed
with all my ex-lovers
and their menstrual blood
absorbed by my covers.
Then I was asleep on the freeway,
alone in the carpool lane;
drove off a bridge in California
and woke up underwater in Maine.
Then I was alive in a coffin
snuggled with a teddy bear –
a knocking at my door,
but I pretended I wasn’t there.
Then I was back to the mirror
engraving my eyes with glass;
as the lights went out,
my ears started to laugh.
Then I was shivering on a pier
with a needle in my arm,
and my intestines unraveling
like a ball of yarn.
Then I was behind steel bars -
opposite a prison guard;
telling him your address,
and handing him a postcard.
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