Clicking of the Ants

I prayed 
   for a pin 
to stick 
    the blooming —

the great God Pop
     that brought the sun 
to its place of low mourning,

    swimming like so much egg yolk 
against the sky. 

When our fire dies,
    I will dine on my teeth,

finding bits of lilies and old graffiti 
    stuck, still, in their crease,

until the good earth is polished,
   as the hum of the soda machines 

and in the dark 
    the ants will keep on clicking. 

A recent music performance where I threatened the audience with a hammer.