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My kingdom is dirty
with ghosts that rattle a bridge
going to the drums, with a heart's core
pierced by telephone poles
the catholic spires in brick
peak insides caked with scentless pigeon shit
where I stopped to read the back of a postage stamp
half-buried in the wall
years stuck to clay no answer from the blood

My kingdom is chirping like a net
with phony seers who make plans onstage
the lego-placid future
of a yellow infrastructure
the sounds of old paint
and another nun dying for sex
laugh at your fellow animals
but the shore that eats closer to their clamor
preys on your achilles, pawns your fingers
to the neck cords
the body is an ancient device

My kingdom is brimming pale with foul-mouthed prophets
whom we all call by their first names
their shattered knowledge stalks us in place
like a factory standing
my kingdom is dirty with girls who lived glory
in the reach of my instruments, and I'll have it
paid by the ferment of strong wood
the planing hands pool shapes
for clean fits
know the future is free from existence
force nails of blacksmithometry
through the cage of arthritis
his kingdom is mine who makes
the things to ease a day past.