call to chrysanthemums!
your holy war, bathed in gold
i eat your thick-skinned wonder years
and lay in pillowed coffins
with the rembrandt picture
that your mother stole.
oh, gritty teeth,
your wondrous cult
following of the masses is
deeper than ayn or charlie
could've hoped.
what does this tell you
of the depleted soul;
the resin dripping
from the tree of life?
these are not myth.
these are child gatherings,
philosophic meanderings,
flayed breasts and smokey eyes
on the bosom of sister earth.



