Jeff Bagato - Three poems

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1. All You Can Eat

                     Curling around a plate of nachos,

         an elephant trunk flexes

                          and twists

                                     as huffing hot, hot cheese

                               he gets brain burn

                and then icy,

                        eye-watering cold

                       Stars and bars flap in a pollen cloud,

                                       so that feeding nozzle

      snurked and sneezed a velveeta

                           hand grenade

                                            upon ol’ Sarah

                  Palin’s tour de force,

                              a new coat of yellow

                                         lipstick for a well-read        

                                     pig

                                    Snouts and nozzles

       being the envy of the free world—

                    all stripped bare

                            of their martyrs and fingerprints,

             smiles gone all smiley

                                       with a prozac psalm—

                       there’s a feasting frenzy

                                folly á deus

                   Lunging at the trough

                                       for bacon bits, flap-

                               doodle, scrapple

                       and thighs

                           The arc of crumbs and grease,

            forms a fountain of self-love,

                                                    an orgy

                                   of the undone

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2. Second Comings

                        Wood bees wrestle in midair,

                                             buzz bombing the benches

                                 with moves

              like loop-de-loop graduates

                                                  of a death wish

                                       flying school;

                                           brushing my arm

                        with feathered wings

                                   flicking air,

                 ‘cause some lady bee doing all the work

                              has started a tunnel

                                                   in the wood slat

                                         at my elbow,

                                    but it’s like

                                             he doesn’t know he

                         don’t have a stinger

                                         and can’t do

                                                    shit

                             Roman centurions gear up

             under Andrew Jackson’s elevated sword;

                                                 Jesus stands at the ready,

                                    blood painted

                 on his cheeks to carry

                                       again the cross,

                       as the trees flower in the warm

                                                      beauty of girls

                                   in summer dresses

                                           passing by,

                                 sore temptations to disrobe,

                     frolic in loin cloth,

                                       and toss that crown

                                                   of thorns in the air,

                            cheering and slapping five

                                   with the centurions,

             modern romans

                            raising digital eyes,

                                    while sandwiches and soft drinks

                  rise to faces blank and calm,

                                                      black clothes

                            solemn in the green

                                           pollenscented air

                                 White crowned with dreads,

                     the Rasta Sufi holds high

                                                   his staff, his denim

                                       skirt ripped from jeans

                           leaving legs free,

                                            and in his eyes his joy

                                                        his own

                                A sign of spring—

                                        gathering the brother-

                           hood of man

                                            and bee

                                        and

                                                     beast

***

3. Remember the Meme

                  With my wizard wand ablaze—

                                  a trap apart from all my demons—

                         not a mystery,

                                           not a shelter,

                            not a grave,

                                          I am homeless and all at home

                         as that whispering wand

                                              beams bright thoughts

                                                        and snappy notions

                               to the brains of all who gleam

                  and glory in their time,

                                                like angels

                                     who light the world

                                                    with a quiet word;

                      on a pinpoint of this light,

                                  these angels cast sweet auras outward

                                                like luciferous diamonds

                         guaranteed to last forever

                                      curled around

              some finger in a dike surrounding this city

                             illuminated with lies,

                                                       sweet lies—

                                          Golden lies

                                                 that ring and shine

                                 like a liberty bell

                    with a halogen clapper,

                                            flinging music that slings

                the clanging knees of a flapper

                                    flatfooting petroleum frolics

                                                         while the flood waters

                                                      rise

                                           The river flashes up

                              past the ankles, up

                                                up past the bra strap,

                  past the parlors and the roof tops,

                                    ‘til it dances on the peaks

                                                              and crenellations,

                                      keeping us fleet and afloat

                       and flopping on the fires,

                                                  on the seas