A perspiration of ore.
They happen to be my only present
alternatives. More, if I thought
they were impossible, I would not
care to push the weight of myself
--the appeal of angels is their
weightlessness; the bones of devils
are made of such dense
carcinogens. You fall all the way
to Hell & out the other side.
Somewhere in Arizona,
there is an exhibition hall filled
with dealers of exquisite gems.
PayPal is not accepted;
rather, the currency of this particular
realm takes the form
of gall & kidney stones extracted
without anesthesia from celebrities
who have reached their expiration
date. Jewels are the solidified tears
of seraphim who weep
for the compounded interests
of talk show hosts who spend
their retirements hunting snipe
with tenants of their more distant
estates: on Mondays we eat
the plastics of our neighbors
so they might sleep more easily
with the denizens of the tunnels.
Your friends have been replaced
by a series of sinister masks
& your mask hides the tiny
boys who run around your face
playing innocent games as once
boys were wont to do.
They bury their dead gerbils
in your pituitary, they booby
trap your nose & sell your
mouth to the little girl
who lived down the lazy
river of your left
innominate vein. She kindly
refrains from frowning,
makes every effort
to live in pieces more easily
broken down for
interment once your plot’s
finally paid off.
