The moon’s red-faced hymen is crestfallen;
eclipsed by a trilogy of cloven sol kisses.
Our universe is not one.
Mechanical bulls are wrangling in ‘The House
of the Rising Sun.’ The sorority girls are all bowlegged
from bar shopping their reversible jeans. Their frat
boys left snipe hunting for lost birds of paradise.
‘Where have all their trappings gone—
long time passing?’
‘Stoned People’ are awakening in their old sweat lodges—
changing cubic zirconia cornerstones into granite ballast
rocks and new altar tops.
Near Nowata, Oklahoma, a shaman rolls the tombstone
blocking Cutfinger Cave over maggots passing through
on a sacrificial cat—
and the spirit of Chief Pokegon wanders.
Kevin Heaton lives and writes in South Carolina. His work has appeared in a number of publications including: Guernica, Raleigh Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Adroit Journal, and The Monarch Review. He is a Best of the Net, Best New Poets, and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee.
Cutfinger was previouslay published in Burningword
Copyright © 2014 by Kevin Heaton
nice. very nice indeed.
The bowlegged sorority girls paints a pleasant picture .