From Gordon Theisen's DEVIL SACK: Idiot Boy Sits on the front stoop, Lackadaisically drooped From the neck on down, But his head's slung back to stare at the sun In lopsided glee — Will damage his retinas But it will not matter. Pale hands a-twitter And barefeet scraped raw, Does not listen To his mother call him From the apartment upstairs Where she watches tv Lying in bed so Obscenely obese And covered in blisters. Wants him to fetch her Chocolate ice cream From the freezer Then go away. These Kids These Days And we are children still and shall rise barfing To teen years and adulthood with brainwaves twirling, And we shall seem to be the animated puppets of those who rose before us, But out cherub faceskins cover our faceskins, yes, The lacerations, stitches, bolted antennae and lightning rods, For we are Frankensteined, A scarified sacrifice, our bodies wordy yet unread, Our bodies incompleted omenboards. We shall deliver, We shall deliver those who rise after, We are the span to walk across From the margins of the highway to the ageless swamp, To primeval religious nondoubt And projections on the sky, On the skeins of day and night, To no better than another start. Anemic we Drink each other's blood for solace, Our delight, an allowance For our service. And of ourselves we shall leave behind a pathos only. You erode but In the foul winds coming we shall disperse Like stardust on a monitor. To Burn is to Smoke The love note I wrote to you, my sweetness, Stuck between page thirty and page thirty-one Of a book about Napolean, is in The book beside a hammer in a bag in a suitcase In a rust-brown Chevy's rusted trunk. That book was meant to be a gift! But the Chevy's underwater on a river's silty bed! And the Chevy's driver sits beside the wheel: a corpse! His name was Joe.  That's all I know, Overtaken, as I am, my sweetness, By such unexpected circumstances. Two Moons "The moon, an airless rock, circles round Our own more fertile globe. And who Could reap harvest from such barren ground? Terrible the price the pleasures of vice, And so must we maintain the laws Found in faded ancient scribblings In margins of brown parchment scrolls Through most careful misreadings, Save our people from themselves And preserve them in the strife And misery that is their plight." "I would like to think the moon A ball of silver twine. On certain nights When most are fast asleep and creamy dream Of possessions and Christmas bonuses at work, A good word from bossman and dessert, A coconut flake pie piece, say, or banana split, The end does dangle down to Earth And those who have been left behind By those who buy and buy and buy Might if they like grab on and climb And on the moon they do discover The unbuilt playgrounds of their own minds." Victoria Stays in the topfloor luxury doublesuite of A commercial district hotel, Victoria the Insufferable heiress Spits on the bellhops, curses out The maitre d',makes nasty demands of The kitchen staff, dinner at breakfast, lunch At 3 a.m., will not let the maids in To vacuum, shag rug covered with bills from One to one hundred, punches other guests In the elevator, gives enormous tips when They complain. Wants offense, to create An atmosphere of disgust and distaste, To produce awareness of impotence and Enjoys explaining how she never made A single cent, got her millions from the man Who thought himself her father but Her mother knew another. Victoria she Likes to leave a mess and watch her lessers Pick up after, moldy dime for the effort, gives Off a stench, never washes, overdresses With intent, smears on greasy rouge And eyeliner, wears jeweled grotesquerie Like prizes. She's shaved off all her hair To don the most flamboyant wigs She can find, sprinkles them with dandruff, Maggots, lice, and glues her real hair to a square Gigantic canvass, strand by single strand, Painfully slow, with total care taken And concentration and concern for Accuracy of placement in A subtly intricate design made also Of magazine clippings, costume gems, Dried condiments, and small things, Matchheads, bottlecaps, and lint, Pumpkin seeds, fly wings, staples, And bobbypins, to depict A wild spotted stallion Thick maned and running In an open field Of clover. all poems by Gordon Theisen copyright 2001 ORDER Devil Sack