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Finney Ordained
Our organ grinder brings surcease.
Our seamstress gives vestments.
Our idiot shares his wine.
Now we are one.
Now we are one.
Let bird be flame.
Let knife be air.
Let hook be coal.
Sink to your knees.
We wash you in oohs and aahs.
We sing the hymn window.
We hum along with Mags.
Seep into our fingertips.
Take up your cross and swallow us.
As Creepy As He Wanna Be
Finney pushes at his
eye patch when folks eye him
on the T just so they
can glimpse his empty eye
socket, a Valentine
from his ex, Sandra nee
Abish--: Take that, said San
dra nee Abish, Take that.
Finney the Informer
No omerta when Finney's home
--his mouth flaps like a cat door
from yard to kitchen,-- what he brings
from prowling the neighborhood
becomes supper for his minders
--nothing so small as a tick
can be overlooked because patriotism
has soft fur like a Behemoth
who reacts placidly to parades
and never curses sloth
in the midst of those who prance
with their Brownings at sling arms
--even barricades can't shut Finney
--they cradle him and bolster his sense <
of correctness as though grandfather
Mieczyslaw has been watching him
from heaven all along--: as though
Finney wouldn't betray Father Tomasz.
Finney on the Mend
As furrows knit after a strong rain,
when each clod of manure unites
with sand and rotten corn stalk
and pig rutted roots,
as the rocks are strained from screens
by young women with braided hair,
and the fine sprays of dirt sift into the soil,
when even the weeds are driven deep
under the tilled earth so that crops
can simmer until root hairs
drag each drop of moisture and nitro
from dust, so Finney's hair plugs
rise and ripen in the summer's sun.
Khuetenie
Finney will interview today as a copywriter.
restoring vital connections, fulfilling a promise
He would rather screw Rimbaud, his neighbor's girl,
one at a time, by hand, estate grown
but she is at school till 2:20, and Finney has to find
a great place for a walking or culinary tour
work to pay for Chanel he'll buy her for a Valentine.
the holidays are coming, follow the snail
First, he completes an overly-long personality test.
archaeological tours led by noted scholars
Second, he writes test copy flacking $15,000 plasma
daylight in your workstation, office, or home
televisions that can hang above your mantel or loo.
unsurpassed protection from the elements
Perhaps, this job is not suited to Finney's needs?
for people considering career choices or changes
Supply chain people are the new gods, Rimbaud says.
Election Day
all politics is grass
waving along the railbed
as Generals' campaign train
rushes past:-- Finney's lapels flap
in caboose's wind-- Generals' banners
chuffing like a sail luffing
"Hear us Hear us Hear us"
the roll-on song:
lovers turn to with rifles
at port arms
"It takes an army to load ballots"
slime
--the eels have it
"But in a pie chart ever so tasty"
all politics is sea grass
embark
"Take your poll and put it
where the sun ain't shine"
--: tail wag
Finney Unfreudend
Freud was right,
but he died before the Royals
left to catch Hess,
before they scootered
geist ways into the marsh,
before non-exodus Reich ways
meant death both ways.
Finney in Recovery
Have you foresworn the mind
altar, the Do What Thou Wilt?
Without the wormwood have you
the Temple's grove torn asunder?
Without a hairshirt have you juniper berries
scenting your gin?
Will Plato run back to the helots
gazing at the cavern wall?
Without a cave have you bubbles
in your Asti?
Without a Tesla have you buds
on your Mary Jane?
Is there grease in your pigsty?
Offal in your playpen?
Without a bunsen burner have you mercury
in your allegory?
Without exstasis have you forethought
beneath your forebrain?
Whale Watch on St. Stephen's Day
1. Finney Alert
Watch the towers burn, the sails sag,
and the sardines stampede, cries Finney,
for St. Stephen has risen from his grave unbruised.
Anglers the world over churn
ambergris, demands Stephen,
then fall dead while I roil the salt beds.
Float by the parish for wine
and bread, commands Finney.
Fish, cries Stephen, enough for one and all!
Dry up, says Finney, there's a storm on.
Boats away, storms Stephen.
Pitchpole is what, says Finney.
Pour me a drink, then, says Stephen.
Pour it yourself, slag, says Finney, I'm back to bed.
2. Finney Asleep
What Finney's dreams are dreaming,
the whales say.
What Finney's snores are snoring,
the whales hear.
What Finney's tossing and turning,
the whales taste.
What Finney's wife is smoking, the whales
wake Finney to share.
3. Finney Aware
Whatever the women in the next room said,
the whales in Finney's bedroom refuted.
Whatever the drunks in Damon's Bar drank,
the whales in Finney's kitchen puked.
Whatever the readers of this poem smelt,
the whales on Finney's porch shite.
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Poems
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