Slam Granny  
  Fanny (for my carpenter son's wife) 
 
  Other poems:

(Second thoughts on the death of Allen Ginsberg)

Edge
 
I want you to know
a 16 penny nail will go into any kind  of stud.
A four and a quarter worm drive power saw will cut into any kind of ply.
An eight inch spike will hold up a galvanized metal drain from any kind of downpour.
Re-enforced wire spun cable will not collapse under the weight of insult.
Pressure treated girt will last out a hundred years of chop saw dreams.

I want you to know
Fanny.
Home is where she hid under the stairs from his storms
in the estate he had built  through her diminishment.
He called her stupid.
He called her crazy.
He let her vote only when he ran for office.
He changed her name to Frances because her father was any kind of a carpenter.
One day after she laced up her corset
she cooked a lovely five course meal
to set upon a formal table for all her husbands most important clients.
And as she always did for such important occasions,
Frances got out the heirloom sterling silver
which on THIS important occasion
Fanny with her bare hands into snarling contortions.
TWISTED BEYOND RECOGNITION
Knives, forks, creamer handles, h'ordvre platters, serving spoons
CHANGED into  any kind of stupid, crazy future art form.
Flames from the candlelabra screamed softly but never really ignited
until we burned our bras much later and polished up her pieces with left over solution.
We  lit the re-fuse to illuminate for Fanny a brighter view
of we could  become.
Meanwhile, he runs for Senator and brings home diseases.
She bakes bread on Tuesdays.
It rises.
She punches it down.
It rises up again.
She puts on her hat and gloves and strools to the end of town... time
Pleasant morning Mister Mayor.
Fine day Mister Church.
See you later Mister Undertaker
and on and on until she dispppears completely
into a thicket of wheat waiting for the final harvest
where she SCREAMS to us, softly now:

I want you to know,
a well floured surface will keep the rolling pin from distroying your crust.
Good soap will save your knuckles from the rasp of time.
Left overs may be disguised of dessert.

I want you to know a man's hands are made from woman's womb.
His way into this world is paved by her patience.
I made those hands which constructed the fantisies that are not about me.
I am the producer of those who produce places I cannot go.
I built the builders of buildings with doors I cannot enter
and bridges that do not span understandings between us.
I want you to know that if they carry my garden away to plant a city of high-rises that are out of reach,
They do not know we are primal as epochs of geese flying on to our next life.

Soap can  be made of people.
But I made you from my body
as the earth is made of children.
We  want you to know you can forge nails from the steal of mankind's binges
and  a foundation from the left-over debres.
Walls from insults can be re-constructed to welcome YOU now.
Because you know a 16 penny nail will go into any kind of stud
and a four and a quarter inch worm drive power saw will cut through any kind of ply.
We can build us a place where any kind
Any kind... Yes, say it, say it... say it - together  now
Any kind, any kind,  any kind...
Any kindNESS can live.

 
 
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