One Last One Night Stand

with Bernie Van’t Hul & David Schaafsma

Some woodsmen curse as virgin forests fall
while others see a dawning of fine light
that blinds the moles and bleaches owls' bones
and sears the saplings, fries the infant buds.
Then cones pop open so their seed will spill
and soil receives this seed, again begin.

Hell's tintinnabulating bells begin
to ring and monkeys in the trees fall
hard on hand-picked coconuts and spill
their milk on heads of thirsty sylphs as light
as pingpong balls. And there stand the buds
guilty, perplexed, waiting for Mr. Bones.

They feel it now, and deep in trembling bones
the ever lurking dread will soon begin
when no bland opiates like labatts or buds
will cushion twice born guzzlers as they fall
into the stupor that no ordinary light
beer can effect. However, a thought spill

is another matter entirely. You spill
the beans for leering priests who make no bones
about the mortal sin that comes to light
when omnivores crepuscular begin
to stalk as adam did before the fall
the fair and nubile eve whose lovely buds

were not unlike the virgin fern's whose buds
would be enough, airbrushed, for me to spill
seed, coffee, beer, whatever, and then fall
ass over teakettle jumpin' them bones
until keenings of the valkyrie begin
to dissipate the gloom of dying light

that undulates through virgin forests. Light
another match and brew rich coffee buds.
Redeploy its fire and then begin
to smoke, like many another spill
liquescent lava over hallowed bones
concealed by sin-stained acorns in the fall.

Turn out the light, prepare at last to spill
spent seed from anxious buds. Mr. Bones
saw life begin. He watches empires fall.