Chapter Eleven
The church was renovated atop the
pool where it drowned on a
Saturday approaching noon prior
to the parents arriving home
the phone
did ring.
Friends:
a curious conundrum.
Prancing down stools. Beating you
to death. What is there to do?
I took up the saxophone. But,
my glands swelled to grapefruits.
I let the treasure go.
Behind the waste cap lying tigers
have eaten. I’ve seen it. Let me see it.
Never have I been
allowed to stay up, past
17 seconds prior to sunrise.
But I shall go to bed. Now.
The lamp is slowly dwindling.
The wonder.
I have more.
Pillow
I’ll be it
A loss
But fortune is gone
And the evening is growing
Too short
For my favor
Ten
But it was silence that crawled
through the rock bed uncoupling
the rabbit whores and all their
breast fed mothers scorching to
the ceiling form with the light
wall
did blow.
New Comers
I.
It hung deep blue from the last brigade, smoke
billowing to the north like an ancient.
Clicking twelve. Sunday morning.
“Why is it so wispy with the damned?” No secrets…Nothing sacred.
There are only the dead.
Salivating.
Despondent.
Coming to the western woods, moving through
the town, standing with a face to the east. They
do not look like the others. Bandaged. Weary.
Business to the mourning.
Coming.
Warning.
I know nothing
like these who now entertain my terrain. Asking
for this and that. The clock ticks.
Mother giving gifts to the children. Father teaching
violence for a price.
Look.
Mind.
II.
Kettle drum, clang! So much for six
or seven.
Holes burnt through the flesh
of centered byproduct. Positive positivity.
Cross the bridge. Make the trumpet ring.
Further climb, die in the after brush.
“Tweed the blankets? Zero down.”
Nothing ever happened. Lying in wait.
Surveillance looking to the late-night.
Lockets lying on the sheets.
I have become. They do not know me.
“Eat the hungry.” Wicked answer!
And there they bring the all.
Sun rising on the outer banks, seventeen
bringing hell to stow away. Poison, heaven;
feet ripping like a pull-away centipede. Oxen call,
site marks,
bending time bringing witness to an end. Falling deep
the holy water spoken spooking my senses; stymied
out the catch-all.
Pocket rushes not much better. Running runs it to the deep.
UNTITLED
(Poem)
Weariness delights my confession,
wrestling with the gun barrel on a shoe string trigger set,
mount the scallions,
bully the muzzles,
hold set and forth.
Transfer your newest paperwork to the captain,
No general,
upon completion of exposure,
no calm to the balance beam,
the battery is on fire,
was your mother clean,
nakedness comes to me again.
Why have you not pressed my soul,
the orders were to unleash the rounds,
hounds scream to the bayonet.
Trumpet,
Trumpet
My godless mount transpires fume blessing,
liquidizing the chain bullet ringers zooming by the Cadillac.
Screaming.
Toddlers walk the water park,
gasoline funneling down the tubes,
part parents drink cocktails.
Conclude.
Minstrel cats license each other for demolition and balletic machinery.
Push away from the shore,
paddle your fists,
find my blessing,
continue my glory,
Let loose upon the turnip hounds dressing it up to envision soil pups.
Now you are aware of my desire.
Garrett D. Tiedemann
