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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 5


The stars are fresh
the wind is stiff
it is winter
I yearn for
the stars
some god
is leaning on
his celestial
plow, massive
Olympian oaf,
shoulder to plow
stubborn and muscular ox
made from the stuff of stars –
rude, black, sooty, bold, strong
and bush-browed, putting his
back into it, whetted with God-sweat;
the progress of hoof and furrow Is
slow as time in star territory, sd
god (the ox) to man the fool
(following hurriedly behind
his god-master) carrying
a basket of seed potatoes,
singing praise songs re:
his legendary relationship
with his legendary god, (who
is intent on the legendary
path of his plow, not men,
crushing stars into rock,
rock into soil, furrow by
furrow) -- this sad ritual
of self-negation before
a silly He-God expressing
sexual hotheadedness on
earth (as it is in heaven,
with a dull knife); all hail
the leading edge of
human ingenuity,
fired by lightning
His sweat
His brow
His cock
His brain
like a yoke
of leather
and oak,
ivy and bone,
while the
so recently cut
from forests, sings
its anglo saxon
reverences, in
bonfires far
and wide,
to sullen

  George Wallace