The Three Languages

The language of dogs.

Dogs run in slavering packs.
Dogs are mouths; mouths with teeth.
That is all. The rest is incidental.

The language of birds.

Birds flit and fly in fractious nations.
They don't really like each other,
but they pretend like they do.
They are afraid to be alone.
Each and every one of them.
There are no real solitary birds.
Once they become solitary
they cease to truly be birds.
They become something else.

The language of frogs.

Frogs philosophize in families.
They rarely make actual physical contact,
but they are always surrounded by each other.

If I had to fuck a dog, a bird, or a frog,
I would go with the frog every time.

My cock speaks the language of the frog.
It philosophizes with them; slippery and slow.

My asshole speaks the language of the dog.
Anything a dog can't fuck, it shits on.

The language of the birds is wrapped up
so tight in my chest that I can barely take a breath with it.
It pinches and squeezes, flits and flutters.


(The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (paperback ed. 1987), Vol. I, No. 33 p. 137)

The Young Giant

I.

The tears of an unworthy son
Are not cleansing, rather,
They fester where ever they drop.

II.

When an unworthy son is swept away,
A hard hearted father does not weep, but
Only laments what might have been and was not.

III.

At the kaliedescopic center of the crystalline
Shards of my first memories is the hoary, hairy,
cracked and leathery nipple of my benefactor.

IV.

I suckled deeply for years
drawing in the salty sap-like fluid
from his gross unnatural protuberance

V.

The strength of an oak tree is felt in your thighs.
As you embrace the trunk you can feel the tug of the bark
on the hairs of your chest and your bearded cheek.

VI.

I am expanded.
I stride the horizon homeward.
Unexpected prodigality.

VII.

What is the worth of a weakling father?
What is the strength of warped steel?
What is the evil in a warped spirit?

VIII.

A selfish black smith in a small town is an anathema.
Cracked hands creased with the soot of years show no kindness,
Nor does he bear well the burden of his emptiness.

IX.

An evil bailiff is an afront to the world.
Stiff shirt, stiff neck, smooth bole.
Both those he serves and those he rules.


X.

Does a haunted mill grind ghostly grist?
I see shapes in the chaff and dust.
They strike me silly.

XI.

A couple who flies together is soon separated.
The span of a finger's breadth becomes the span of a universe.
Where shall they land?

(The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (paperback ed. 1987), Vol. I, No. 90 p. 357)

The Golden Children (A Haiku)

Magical fish's gifts

Nagged into oblivion

A brother's love saves

(The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (paperback ed. 1987), Vol. I, No. 85 p. 336)

Clever Hans (A Sestina)

It starts with the needle.
Then there is the knife
that slits the throat of the Goat.
The pig renders bacon
and veal comes from the fatted calf.
So says sweet Gretel.

The first time I saw Gretel
she was plunging the needle
into the back of her calf.
I put away my knife.
The tenement smelt of old bacon
grease and had the rank odor of the goat.

The patriarch was an old goat
who kept making eyes at Gretel;
he provided the bacon
and would always needle
her about her fear of his knife
and her innocent eyes of the calf.

But I still worship the Golden Calf,
I still pay homage to the ancient Goat,
Father of the Knife.
I silently covet Gretel
and her magic needle.
John Bacon.

There is the story of John Bacon
who led the spotted calf
through the eye of the needle,
avoided the butting charge of the goat .
He swept up Gretel,
sliced her arm with his knife .

In my carriage I am the knife;
in my hopes I slice the bacon;
in my heart I love Gretel;
in my soul I am the calf ;
in my dreams I am the goat;
in my despair I am the needle.

I love Gretel even though she jabbed me with her knife,
even though she started me on the needle and bacon,
even though she roped me like a calf and had me rut her like a goat.

(The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (paperback ed. 1987), Vol. I, No. 32 p. 133)

A Tale About the Boy Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was

What is the worth of a second son
overshadowed by the firstborn’s birth right?
He wears the laurel blossoms while
I wear the chaffed duster.


But if I could only get the creeps.


Sitting before the cherry wood cross,
I smelt the dust from the hymnals and
the hard cloth cushions on the protestant pews.
Forms coalesced in the dust,
almost invisible against the chalk white walls.
But they were sealed off from this world
beyond an impenetrable boundary.
They were isolated, not even present,
and could give no one the creeps.
I have no fear of earth bound boogie men
lurking in belfry towers.
My fear is the spiteful scorn of a loveless father.

If I could only get the creeps.

I spent some time among the walking corpses
of weary travelers who thought
they had learned something new.
But they didn’t know what fear was,
or, at least, they couldn’t show it to me.
Swaying shoulder to shoulder,
they were trapped in a circular communion
which I could not join, nor did I wish to.

And I still could not get the creeps.

Then there was the castle.
Talismanic provisions:
fire and tools, a knife, a lathe, a chisel,
a bench upon which to work.

The first night –

Long clawed cats dark as coal dust,
red eyed dogs with slavering muzzles,
these are not objects of terror.
Ah, but an enchanted bed
is another thing entirely for
fear lurks in the creases of the coverlets.
Yet the racing fury left me unmoved.

The second night –

Casting nine pins with the cracked skulls
and yellowed bones of long dead men,
wagering death’s wages with newly dead men.
Losing, but not too much; inimitable fun without fear.

The third night –

There was a heavy lidded coffin.
Inside was my cousin.
I warmed him with a fire.
I warmed him with my embrace.
I lay with him and warmed him with my body,
And so did he revive and seek to murder me.
I returned him to his coffin and closed the lid.

Then the white bearded patriarch appeared,
menace sparked from his eyes like electric flashes.
I trapped him by his own beard in an ax cleaved anvil
to be released in exchange for treasure and a princess bride.


But I still did not have the creeps

The wisdom of a chamber maid.
The daring of a golden new wife.
Minnows in cold water
slipping and scuttling down my spine.

Now I know what the creeps are.


(The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (paperback ed. 1987), Vol. I, No. 4 p. 12)

The Virgin Mary’s Child

Sweet daughter, victim of a selfish God

who bestows knots of iron hunger

in the innocent belly of a child.

This is not the work of green wooded satyrs

who danced the dance of plenty;

days when the swaddling babes lay draped

in vines between the druidic roots.

This is the work of the God

of iron fear and thorns of steel.

Give her to the Mother of Christ

so that she shall suffer no more.

Take her God of pity, piety, and plenty.

Let her rise. Let the cherubim be her companions;

fill her swollen little belly with cake and cream.

And so it was.

And now she has grown fast this woman-girl.

Let her hold the thirteen keys

while the Mother journeys on behalf of the Lord.

She shall stand in Peter’s stead

and hold the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.

The daughter of Mary disobeyed

and the Cock crowed thrice.

Beyond the thirteenth door she crept

and glimpsed upon the power of the Trinity.

And she feared.

She was spared the mark of Cain, and, instead,

was branded in gold on her tiny finger.

Yet three times did she deny her transgression.

And so she was cast out.

Thrown into the wilderness,

stripped of her clothes,

bereft of speech,

cut off from the things of man.

Living in the hollow of an ancient tree,

she dined on roots and wild berries,

her only glory the golden cloak of her own hair.

And there she stayed.

But she was redeemed by a man

who freed her with an iron will and an iron sword.

He loved her and he married her and he sired her a son.

The Mother returned and demanded:

“Repent, or I shall have this son of yours.”

But she remembered the days of cake and cream,

and she denied her transgressions.

Her son was taken up into Heaven

just as she had been.

“Ogress”, the people whispered, but her child was

safe and her man was her own, and again he sired her a son.

The Mother returned and demanded:

“Repent, or I shall have your second son.”

But she remembered the play of the Cherubim

and denied her transgressions.

Her second son was taken up into Heaven

just as she had been.

“Ogress”, the people said to each other,

but her sons were safe in Heaven’s embrace,

just as she had been as a child. And her man was her own

and he now sired her a daughter.

For the third time the Mother demanded:

"Repent, or I shall have your daughter as well.”

And the vision of the thirteenth room

struck her eyes, the fear and the glory

of the Trinity consumed her.

But still she denied her transgressions,

and her daughter was carried into

the Kingdom of Heaven by the Mother of Christ.

“Ogress,” the people shouted, “eater of children.”

And they drove the stake deep into the ground,

and scattered the base with dry kindling,

and all the while the good mother smiled

for her children were safe in the bosom

of the Mother of God.

As the smoke choked her throat and tears filled her eyes,

she thought: “Now I shall repent, and we shall all be together.”

And she repented: “Yes, Mary, I did it.”

The clouds gathered and the rain fell; the fire died.

And Mary with her crown of stars descended

with the three babes in her arms, cruel mother

who casts her children from the Glory of God.

And she despaired.

The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse

Suffer the company of a cat,

And why not?

It is the way of the world.

But to suffer the company of a mouse,

That indeed is a different matter.

Nasty creature who thinks she’s so clean.

The Frog King, or Iron Heinrich

Faithful Heinrich, was it the same witch
that opened your chest and girded your heart,
that very same witch who sprinkled and gestured
and twitched and murmured and cast me into the well?

Were you aware when she eased her
bone smooth fingers between your ribs
and wrapped those bands around your heart?
She promised gold bands, but gave iron,
iron which rusted brittle with blood.
She is a great breaker of promises, yes,
but, again, it is a broken promise that restored me.

She promised clothes and jewels and pearls and a golden crown.
And they were there; but the well was thick with cold and the water deep. I could not raise them; I could not raise myself.

But my piteous, vicious, dishonorable, beautiful bride
raised me with a mere drop of sun.
Now I have clothes and jewels and pearls.
Now I wear my golden crown.
I am pleased.

I wonder, faithful Heinrich, how you came to hear
of my liberation, that you appear before me this morn
driving an eight-steed team, bedecked
with gold chains and ostrich feathers?

Was it that very same wicked witch that opened your chest
and girded your bursting heart with brittle iron bands,
that very same witch who sprinkled and gestured and twitched and murmuredand cast me into the well?

Was it she who whispered into your ear this morn,
well before the sun had risen?

Your joy restores me . . . but what has she promised now?