Spell of Attraction Performed with the Help of Heroes or Gladiators or Those Who have Died a Violent Death

We’ve called for reinforcements, cavalry
and stuntmen, men with quivers, men whose names
in ancient languages mean valiant
and thick of neck. Mermen and chiseled men
like the mini men on top of trophies. Men
trampled by boars to save their firstborn sons
and sonless daughters. Hotheads, tarred and feathered;
yes men, tall and monocled, bespoke,
unspoken for, and down to lead a hand.
We’re storming the perimeters and stores
of doubt, with catalogs of tragic flaws
and maps and shiny shoes, a man band marching
to the beat of Bite Me, passing madly through
the universe I used to share with you.

Sinkhole Oracle

after a line by Wallace Stevens

I, bummed, looping my tinny beat,
alone by my mud pit, into big men,
numbly begin to empty an idiom.
I’m playing Me, bound not by time
but type—moody, benign, minimal—
implying I’m done, but maybe not.
I’m a dim bulb, empty, tying one on,
but I’m beyond my longtime pain.
I may begin numbed in to my plot,
a poet in limbo, but end mymying,
bumping my one byline to admit

When We Were the Queen

We were next level.
We reversed decrees.
We skewered the press.
We bejeweled the deer
then let them be pets.

Wherever we went,
we sexted shepherds.
We hedged the best bets.
We pretended well
when we felt regret.

Were there experts? Yes,
they were rejected.
Between TV screens,
we helter-skeltered.
We deleted scenes.

Were messes left? Yes.
We egged the temple
then yelled, “WE’VE BEEN EGGED!”
News crews descended.
“Let’s help me,” we begged.