By J.J. Tindall
St. Francis of My Ass
I don’t mean to tick anybody off.
I pray to my own St. Francis.
St. Francis of My Ass, Clyde!
Nobody but me slams
my door. This keeps me free.
I am not a Socialist!
I am not a bedbug!
I do not weep blood and then cease.
Like an eagle, I increase!
Yes, and this is
an eagle which stands
for itself.
This can be a weird thing
when it’s real. This is the deal:
you are the deal.
And sometimes it fucks up,
becoming a veritable bay
of pigs, twigs
in a bastard eagle’s maw.
Wait: I didn’t mean that!
I meant bats
in a bog-hole.
Ego mistaken for conscience,
ice in a bog-hole.
Who cares if God is dead?!
What make the maw of the moon?
Youch! Intimations of gloom . . .
Don’t tell me who God is,
don’t bother. Let it hover.
Rat Bastard Moon!
Skull of the frozen lake,
a whirlpool of drama,
skull god strafes lake.
My garden is frozen,
twigs crack by the dozen.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Music: MySpace page
* Fiction: A Hole To China
* Critical biography at e-poets.net
Posted on February 4, 2010