Each winter old astronauts sleep in the mountains.
Fingers grow everywhere in the snow like ballpoint pens
after the Deluge. The best always die first,
Noah used to say. Do you by any chance believe that?
Wasn’t he just a misogynist control freak? Don’t good
things last forever? Or is forever too time-consuming
to your taste? The best always die first, but carpenters
escape from the disciples into outer space and cease
clipping the hair and nails and roar with joy. Haven’t you seen
the planes and mallets in museums, those they left behind?


Music is a boiled chicken
in heaven
that asks St. Paul
why he is such a jerk.
But he is not
a jerk. He doesn’t even need
a lift to the flophouse


I am too old to accept the male creator.
I know a bird is a muddy window to his headaches.
I’ve seen the list of people heavens asked to feed their toes to fish.
I’ve seen the list of vipers heavens asked to chew bubble gum.

Yes I know a bird is a muddy window to his headaches.
And a fish is always faithful to an earthworm.
And a pine is a proper song to forget a child under.
And weathervanes are good means to forgive the color of your eyes.


It can be hard to breathe for a star,
to shine for a spider. Dust can fill everything
besides your armpits. It’s about time
to take a picture, perhaps, or get lost
amidst Christless crosses in the Saturnian woods,
the boondocks of the universe, to call out to the patron saint
(in case you remember the name, of course)
amidst clothed crosses. There are always cracks
in eggshells, fingernails and walls, after all. There are always crackpots
among firemen and electricians. There are always beatific butchers
among harpists and trumpeters.