The Seven Lost Journals of St. Markian Lewis

The Hesitation of St. Markian Lewis

The shy embankment stations its pipes
for gasoline and water in summer steps
grounded to a conclusion that wheat is not
like stalks of symphony-timing crows
dipping into morning and then hesitating
for the small summer drift of warm water

St. Markian Lewis Vamping on Coalmice

White cheeks in the rain
drowsed on a white picket fence
ignoring the 3.5 rats in the house
father rat aims towards the coal tit
not knowing the difference
between a bird on a wire
and Korea, shuffling towards the editing
of dusk rain

Shots ring through the neighborhood
and the 3.5 rats next door believe they have
the birdgod given right
to inspect the remains of the coal tit
and collect its wages

The Hunger and Bows of St. Markian Lewis

Pashima tyrant spreads her wings
between stolen pipes and cruel
leggings, though she did not dance
in the heat of November members like
squatting cowboys awaiting a bath for their cheeks
will power and salt sees the end of the day
hunger and bows, hunger and bows, hunger and bows
they take the lost terrain
and staple themselves to crow hunting trophies

St. Markian Lewis Finishes First

The fair-haired St. Markian Lewis
was absolved by the court
on earth as it is in heaven
so calls the sobered bells
by the dormant, somnolent
curves made of Her
own fashioning. His God,
She does not call witnesses
without a cup of fire
five miles below the ground
lies St. Markian Lewis’s resolve

The Toying and Shelled Fear of St. Markian Lewis

St. Markian Lewis
lost his sacred texts
next to the amphitheater
to be the sky, like
skew-whiff sediment
stolen pearls, lost journals
disrupted vacations
hair cut in place
a scalp not for fiscal
cow-tits leaning towards the West

The Garden Bed of St. Markian Lewis

A deception for informal guests
a recitation eluding narration
and missing clowns of scarecrow doves
beginning to make sense
like lost favors
stolen by chance

Syd and St. Markian

St. Markian’s last fabled friend
reached out for morning
to the song that was calling
but he did not hesitate
to fasten the four gates
to keep out the chosen ones
and creep into bed
with the last favor he said
“It is now morning
your formal gavel gift is forming
but without me.”