Wine Poem One

If I could
take a piece of wood
and sculpt it into
the Madonna giving birth
I wouldn’t need to
ever write another poem.

Or scour the depths of a dysfunctional language to discover
time’s ectoplasm and suspend it in effigy above each piece
of stitched together memory called history.

But these are more banal times devoted to an abused remote
and big screen HDTV philosophy along with MP3 and the
mystery of on-line gambling feeding frenzies free.

In the modern
dumping-ground of utility,
the next millennium's
anthropologist will find
the working grist of
self-immolation jn ecstasy.