For the Eagles, Seagulls & Dieters Along the Hudson River
by Mathias Svalina

Even when the villagers tread on the lion's tail it does not bite. Cellophane in the gutter-grate shudders in the wind, it reminds me of a withered arm & it reminds me of the priest's silky stole.

This we may call intentional redistribution of self-gratifying guilt. The church obstructs the river. Moral, battered. Stale barley in the spoil; the boots reveal the mudstains to be motion. 

Protect the blood. Catch a yellow butterfly lengthwise & hope for fortunate porkstuff.  In the 90s we called this kismet. Now I'm looking for a plastic specimen cup full of syrupy kohl.

For the hairless? A basement. And thirsty. And oboe. And when thunder comes there is alarm & then laughter. In the morning we ate oatmeal with golden raisins & the tv pulsed into herons' wings.  A tethered ox is a gain for the traveler.

When the candied yams dry, when the man in ICU wakes from his coma to find his jaw cracked in half there is pooled drool on your blue t-shirt, there is dried cum on your forearm. 

The trains screech stiffly against nourishment. We watch a marching band in yellow shirts practice marching in the park. A pink flag flurries. An oboe falls into the river & settles beside a bloated bear-skin rug. A tangled ball of yellow yarn.

Two butterflies in an oak frame, pinned but still weakly arcing their wings. Over lights & misleading, you say: This taste of oak leaf & omission. I respond: Do not act on this for ten years. Even then the lion's tail will twitch.

Open the fortune cookie, Desdemona. It will say "You've been a wonderful audience, please give yourselves a handjob." It will say "There are no animals at an abandoned well."

Other poems by Mathias Svalina in ActionYes #3:
Why are all the Boyscouts Dying?
When I was a Buckle