Poem XXVII: Booty

This century's ass
is already full
of gold doubloons
and pieces of eight

Poem to White House I: Corinna

One of our goats,

Corinna,
miscarried last Thursday.

Three not remotely viable  goat-fetuses

were discovered
asleep in the hay.

Horrible,

yet at the same time
sort of beautiful in its horrible way.
Nature's mind
is a corpse-chucking fuck-show,
as we farmers like to say.

We also have chickens
rabbits
and bees

except the bees are gone

We were like 'Stay!'
but they  were all 'No.'
It was time for them to go.

Bye, honey.