Sun-shot warnings.

The tuning of the sun squealed out

 these notes against the signs for trespass:

“Beware the hollow of the rot-pines needling

their plots into the faltering chapters

of the day not yet composed in ink

upon the blasphemy of prayerless matins

sung by distant sirens of recovery,

offering the hope that drives the ants.”

Build your piles of future compost

with heaving yellow swarms of trucks

and dozers left to strip sleep from weed

soaked lots left vacant by the last hurrah

bellowed bullish in trespassing intervals.

Noisome Silence

The silence chatters knowingly of words

unsaid—better that way—so rancor molds

into the blackened crust that solitudes

parallel lines in mathematical precision.

Cleanly, numbers waltz in dire solemnity,

calculate the morning of your algorithm,

stripping mystery from destiny’s illusion.

You’d change your numbers like your socks

to twist the sun around the earth—the counter-

revolution of Copernicus, yourself the navel

of the world chanting, “What a piece of work…”

to stone-stopped ears, statutes against deafening

sounds that clatter the cluttering of the silence

once cherished as the cherries plucked ripe

from swollen trees of distant promises.

Windows of Lies

Streaks on the window lie and you follow,

believing in the rain that never comes. Shut

up in the heavens—God’s curse until Elijah

shows up at the widow’s door, begging

for the last bread and oil, “Bake me a cake.”

Such is the arrogance of the prophets,

such are the rules of hospitality.

Without a choice, they both obey

lest the world collapse to anarchy.

Or so they believe—nobody bothered to test

the rules until after the Greeks had their day

and the doubts took root, cracking foundations.

You look past the lies staining the window,

scanning the view. No sign of your Elijah.

Betting the Rain

Cloudy, with a chance—always a chance, setting

odds, like betting would make a difference thanks

to Pasquale’s wagering. Probable cause of today

happening: one hundred percent. You can bet on it

and win if some sucker would show up—dumb

enough to take your bet. They don’t so you pocket

the day along with the cash saved up for rain.

You’re too thin-skinned to ignore the weather

the way the dog does—and the birds. Scattered

showers drive you to cover, fearful of showering

not your choosing. Spoiled out of the elements,

you create your own, as if control makes you God.

The house isn’t the world and world not the house;

how can you ignore the door where wind calms?