I shredded thirty paper years
to a bland and joyless confetti.
in the chasm of Howl,
forgotten there my wrinkled tips,
my soiled hands.
Moloch, then, was a god
of ugly demands
and I, for which shit was Shinola
parted the lids of his eyes for a look—
The shit changing to soil,
Shinola remaining Shinola.
(You can tell by the gloss
of a god-fearing turd.)
From the fringe
of his black and white cloak
waved his many hands;
a smiling and chubby
I said as I knelt.
Moloch is just as you left him.
Crow Hollow 19
The artist's space.
Murder Two, Winter 2015
About the poem:
Reading Howl again after 30 years reminded me how little has changed. Finding its familiar
black and white cover on the library shelves and the comfortable fury of youth in its pages
carried me back from the temperance of wisdom and age. The hunger of Moloch for innocence remains unsated and rarely refused.
A much longer poem in its original draft, I opened Beat Persistence thinking it well-suited for Crow Hollow. While I rarely tinker obsessively with my work, I do inevitably revisit each
poem, paring away as I do, purposefully discarding the original piece. In the end, finding that just as with life, I am far happier with less.