The Archaeology of Archangels
This is the first in a series of stanzas that
Ordinarily would be sleeping if we (the
Archangels) hadn’t woken up in swimsuits.
By the time you read this, I will be Queen.
The Archaeology of Fashion
I hate the smell of chiffon.
I can’t help but think of you,
All the time keeping an eye inward,
As if you were a frog.
The Archaeology of War
If there are two men producing nothing,
It is guaranteed one
Will eventually die of grief.
Every guerrilla has a glowstick
To guide us in the night.
The Archaeology of Doris Day
Each day the girl in the clown suit
Two-steps to inclement weather.
The ponderosa pine, it is said, is the only tree
That has ever had sex with God.
The Archaeology of Matches
Sometimes the boys in the mosque
There are all kinds of occasions for faux art—
The way it imitates faux life,
Like a pair of dunce caps.
The Archaeology of War 2
I was turquoise once, said my face to the other face
Beating itself against the windshield.
On the other side, the flip
Side, the girl in the striper dress
Saluted the other side with a glowstick.
The Archaeology of Water
In pajamas no one is safe.
Before she could talk, she shot
Pool. And before that, she
Sucked liquor from a pistil.
The Archaeology of Celibacy
What does eyesight have to do
With myopia, she said,
She said: Taffeta is a sign of celibacy
When worn by Queens.