Hierophany

I
Warlocks sip on potent teas
and wipe their hands across their knees.
As Grandpa fixes whirled peas,
a moustached man decries, decrees.

Wait a sec, I’ve gotta sneeze—
these god-forsaken allergies—
might you grab a kleenex please?
It’s something in this desert breeze.

Outside, it’s just about to freeze.
The needle sticks on thirty-three degrees.
Afresh, afresh, the budding trees
will, like peaches, die in this spring’s freeze.

II
Grown-up kids, who cut the cheese?
Smells like ... stocking insecurities.
His and hers? Or mine’s and me’s?
Zeroes, ones, and twos, yes threes!

As paintings hang in galleries,
balloons inflate (not salaries).
Accountant-fashioned fudgeries?
They’re tragedies, not travesties.

Pop, your whim I will appease—
“He who smokes too much will wheeze.”
We sail a-high on rising seas,
so why not bank on our debris?

III
A tanker’s tipping off Cadiz
as plumage flocks from X Valdez.
The Skipper lifts a leg and pees,
we work for oil companies.

O, Midol, help us get our Z’s;
undo the knots in our tummies;
let our eyes slip back with ease,
as photos snap our liberties.

They hit the road in boarish humvees,
even flying daily sorties.
“If it sticks, try elbow grease.”
Or: just rip apart her dungarees.

And why not laugh at retardees?
Their bus is bound for chimpanzees.
B-dee b-dee b-dee b-dees.
“Now let us see your papers, please.”

—JACK RANDALL
December 2002