Museum conditions for the Washington Biologist
Lyon
Washington daily in 1901
newspapers
tight ligature
on marinated planks
An uneasy feeling
Washington Biologist in the Washington Zoo
this life
Content
of Bankakee
Archivists disagree
Lyon
Never watched and the U.S. government in a
new home and practice times
of
Indiana
Rest in a five year
end it rue patter
for mammalogy
species of
papers
he had no more human
association
The Museum took
And in 1936 retrieved
the first
Skinless subject near
Boston
Jr. they called him
1871 of the
close
Indiana Audubon — the Hylobate
Nation preceding
the
Smithsonian family
fortune.
The Fourth Night of the Fifth Year
Stop reading: Things have gotten tense
Between the Farmer and the Bodybuilder
The Farmer locked in the barn. Jed wakes
The largest rooster, which, in turn, interrupts
His old, bitch mother’s wild dream. Night
After night drunk as if pulled through a kaleidoscope
Basal carcinoma breeches its surface
A mighty flip for the almighty then back — BACK
Through the airlock. It’s silent here amongst no chicks
Which switch as though ejaculated. Standing nude, monolithic
In the sun, the Farmer forced to clean up after the Bodybuilder.
Stars drip from the padlock lovely beneath the latch.
I can see you, Jed.
The Sixth Night of the Fourth Year
You can continue to stop reading: Things ain’t well
Between the Farmer and the Bodybuilder
The Farmer has kept in the big, red barn
And Milk, who, it is written,
Whether or not anyone reads, has continued to
Dream prodigiously like a pig eating its own shit
The Caesar wears like a pendant. Butchering’s 50 percent
What isn’t written, she always said, and that is to say:
Milk’s lunches have gotten slim.
Less meat landing at the padlock, less meat on the Farmer.
One man opening his hand toward another
Will take something for memory. Jed takes
But won’t remember.
The Eighth Night of the Third Year
You mustn’t read on: Mother is dead
Under a blanket dancing all of her little ones
Their loudest cottons torn along floorboards
Dancing through the eye of a needle.
No mountain passes but saying—oh—saying there are
Mountain passes cut and in between
Remind me: The Farmer and the Bodybuilder
The Farmer locked in the big, red, burning barn
So many years ago, still, are cocooned back-to-back and hung
From the bark of the Alamo tree. I, the poet, sing to them every night
After night drunk as if pulled through a kaleidoscope
Hoping you will love.
