Penal Poets Colony
The seagull-celebrated sea forever going back over the shape of things to come. From the landed ferry athletic poets in striped uniforms unload a string of empty coffins.
The pulse of waters slits the sands. Askeladden and I loll in the backyard of our vorübergehende home feeling up tied handkerchiefs filled with grass for any buds announcing breast cancer. Of mom we learned to never speak. (Here in Croatia, the pseudo-Greek term for “nostalgia” is “nostalgiva.” What remains of Sappho’s poetry fairly drips with it. (The “g” is hard; the “v” falls silent.))
Mule, our father, is the substitute penal poets colony commander. Into his forehead a rosy B is dug like a double triangle in the shape of breasts announcing Breakfast! Papa roars down from the cyclopean cliffs:
They call me Mule,
Friend of the Morning Seagull,
that chasing last night’s Zephyrs
meets and greets with astonished shrieks
the moon-sponged harvest of washed up corpses!
That bullet searching after you?
Your mother engraved your name on it!
From the grave her trigger finger wags the hit man hither!
Bliss, fatso bliss, and the sky with clouds beneath its eyes turns fifty-five again each morning!
What more is Mule but this?
The workshop shovels are carted under. The poets dig their lone mass guess. Already at their knees saltwater collects.