written in the season of cattle mutilation

the stars drip with semen, the moon shedding

menstrual blood onto quiet suburbs           –           up here

                                                                                             the night sky is dark and quiet

                                                                                             as it was when the universe was young

                                                                                             unpeopled, the copulating planets

                                                                                             made invisible by white streetlight

                                                                                     the Pleiades are leering cannibals

                                                                                     six gaping mouths stained red

                                                                                     to be human is to hate the stars

                                                                                     to hide from the moon in a cave

                                                                                 and carve insults to the sun, symbol of tyranny

                                                                                deep and bitter into a cliff face.

                                              when I go outdoors, I always wear a hat

                                              so the sun can’t ejaculate onto my face

                                              and when I look up at night, I imagine

                                              Voyager-II being sodomized by comets

                                              ten-thousand years from now.

                                              when you look up, all you can see

                                              is a sterile womb, an emptiness above

                                              that points to an emptiness below

                                              something that rots in millions of years

                                              as opposed to a hundred, the faulty design

                                              of a blind universe made by a lonely God

                                              one with too many faults to name here

                                              who still gave to me the sight of clouds

                                              as vast as city blocks above I-95 and the

                                              warm breeze on my face when I walk your dog

                                              down quiet streets, past derelict barns and homes

                                              unbelievably larger than yours.

                                                                                            for that, at least

                                                                                            we can thank God!