Litany of Hermeneutics

Like first light 

clawing up from dark 

water, I'm the strict 

interpretation that starts
with misunderstanding.

You know me, my darling, 

my bruised peach.

I'm your thin skin 

sliced — the finer, 

more manageable crisis.

I'm the morning's first crow,
the wild turkey that startles down
dawn with my pine-bough drop-flight.

I make you draw red
lines all up & down 

your arms, my
whisper-swish razor-love.

I'm translated into forty-six languages.

I saw cancer, indifference, & hate
kill all the best 

ladies I ever knew.

Jesus was a personal friend.

That's a few years now,
the systematic fist,
Bible verse, knife.

Christ, you say.
This isn't what 

I came here for.
 

I say:
You want a job,
right?

Right?

I hasten to say that JFK
was not my father.

I have about thirty-seven hand-gestures
I could teach you, 

my lover, my dove.

I have about gone mad twice
as many times as my old man.

I wanted him to see my eyes 

when I took his pistol.

I want you to know

the careless practice of interpretation
really pisses me off.

I want you to know savage pain
is the name of a punk rock band
I never started.

You know I wasn't 

a really good dad,
but I was damn,

a damn good Marine.

And fifty-seven fists fall on me

like the cold, back-hand waves

breaking the shore of Lake Michigan.

One time I heard a story.

One time I heard a song.

One time I heard

my name on your lips,

your lips.

You know I still 
tell lies 
like flies on shit.