Garden Noises; The Lord I Did Not Want

L. S. Klatt

Garden Noises

Life nowadays is trash, nothing so
dirty as blood, no, the yellow moon

in the fig tree sullen, the aluminum
planets rusted. The flea, only

innocent for an hour, is a hitchhiker
dangerously composed, as if barely

moving, but still an angel not disabled
completely, crouched with dignity

on the reddening turnip, as the sun
at nightfall questions every friendless

fire in every permanent house save
that which is painted by the peacock’s voice.

The Lord I Did Not Want

With a tin gun I shot God into pieces,
nothing better to do, ha ha! I was

pleased. Miracle Products to keep me
thundering. Young grasshopper full of fizz

and mulberry, I always been knocked out
by the down and dark, and I had the peculiar

fortune to go off. I’m poisonous, I be
thinking when feeling like the Almighty,

pistol spitting up beautiful seed,
a thimbleful of wrath. Come one, come all,

I make a buzzard’s speech in the keyhole
of the stomach. Something else I recognized

on account of my armed forces. Easy
to click, bang, sing if you hold your breath.

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