Voices from the Field
He reigns over me like a meadowlark in the meadowlands. Underground wiretap. They buried my heart under the stadium stands. Some of us have to work for a living. Saviour, my sin, my paisan! Pobody,not even the nerfect,has a fetish for his peeling calloused hands.
He sticks it in me with his workman's hands. I want a man with a ruddy tinted hand. I want a man with a slowhand.
Do you venerate your dad? Who watches Watchung Avenue? My prayer hands fuss Holstein Manti mantilla. Squawkbox mezzo soprano while I kneel at altar rail bands.
My turnpike binoculars see the ancestral homeland tenements. Semper sperans. [...]