Conservation
Orange ribbons adorn a package
of white, still shot through
with blonde, walnut, a few edges
of char. Former conflagration
now low enough to cook hot
dogs, chicken, pie. The redolence
of the former meal dispersed on the wind,
the only evidence left a long bone,
a scatter of teeth. The communicants,
bellies full, have now retired to their
cottages. The indigent now converge,
mouths moist, eyes narrowed.
Two of Swords (reversed)
Each pamphlet is another ravine, each book
another mountain, and the rice paddies sit
just beyond the door, whisper, lament,
criticize, nag. Lungs filled with smoke
from the candle, though, you turn
your eyes back to the pages, begin to read
once more. The soldiers do not come
at night; you can pull the paper
from the hidden hole under the rug
beneath the table, loose the cat
to find her own dinner.
The rich grow fat
in their palace; your thirst is never slaked.
You can nap while in the fields. Tomorrow,
the harvest begins; tonight, you turn
to another sheet, whisper the words,
listen to the pads of ringtails outside
your window, curious at the drips
of light that leak from behind the shutter.
The Zero-State Solution
This is Vietnam, this is Cambodia,
this is all the groupies who flock
outside the tourbus and believe
their purpose is to die under
the wheels as it pulls away, or
to hide in the shower stall
and stow away as far as Manitowoc,
bruises be damned. The stash
of punji sticks under the floor
can be used to fight off rivals,
drunk singers, the occasional
hard-boiled egg. When it comes
right down to it, what holds
you in Mogadore other than
its name, a Russian tea ceremony,
and two hundred thousand acres
of garlic? You roll your Morris
Udall poster, slip it into your
backpack with three books
on capnomancy and a week’s
supply of celery chips,
and it’s off to the races we go.