POEM FOR THE END OF 2012

The theologian drinking cosmos
     at the cocktail party said
the universe is really nothing 
     meaning it's mostly dark
matter, but something he said
     always comes from nothing 
and we know that there's no 
     such thing as nothingness,
that is, a constant state where
     nothing breeds nothing. The
proof, he said, is all around 
     us, we just can't see it
and even if we could we
     could not comprehend it, 
the concept itself -- just like
     the universe, he said --
is too abstract, like god, just
     because it's all nothing
doesn't mean we can't talk to it,
     feed it, pray to it, curse it,
damn it. After which the guests
     retreated to the pool and
poured themselves another drink
     and waded into the dark
of the pool and now naked stared
     up at the sky to feel the moonlight
on their faces like a blessing
     and as their eyes adjusted 
to the night they lost themselves 
     in galactic swirls, stardust
and retrograde planets swimming
     in the nothingness of 
nothing, they felt the dark matter
     all around them and the stones
in their heads stared in wonder
     and the theologian among 
them lay in the dew-wet grass
     weeping not for himself
or his soul or the souls of 
     those of us naked and shivering
but for the loneliness he 
     felt now loosened by those
cosmos, the empty glasses 
     clinking all around him like 
the music from faraway spheres 
     and wind chimes tinkling 
in the warm galactic wind.

     
     

TURKEY FAT

They're not big gravy fans
so when they pull the bird
out of the oven and 

slice open the cooking bag 
like a deflated oxygen tent
and rip off the wings and legs

they're looking at a carcass
of steaming white meat and
two quarts of boiling fat

sloshing in the roasting pan
which they liposuck out
with a yellow-bulbed baster

and spray into mason jars 
and set them in the yard
to cool before they feast 

on burnt brussel sprouts and 
marshmallow carrot pie and 
mashed potatoes minus the 

gravy, and five days later 
they throw out all the jellied 
turkey skin and bones that 

our mutt Friendly finds the 
jars of congealed fat 
and laps up the soft grease,

lolling his tongue into
the jars until he's all 
grease-nosed, his fur all muck-

smeared and for the next three 
days he's shitting pools of 
turkey fat all yellow and 

slick and it's then that I 
count my blessings, thank those
zealot pilgrims for this 

bounty, I thank God for 
my neighbors who shot our cat 
Henry in the eye when

their kids got .22's for 
Christmas and who throw
cherry bombs at woodchucks

in the gully every 
Fourth of July, I 
thank them for their 

shattered bottles of 
Old Crow and Mountain
Dew sparkling in the

autumn sun, I say a
special prayer for their
souls, for throwing thistles 

and stinging nettle seeds
and deadly nightshade into
their yard, for placing a 

nest of paper wasps 
under their crawl space 
with all the garter snakes 

I can find.