Rodney Koeneke

My Cream

DAKKA DAKKA ­ More Loud Guitars!
called 'Grunt' or 'Jimi Death Grunts' (stars ruined
Cream) Solo guitars, doomy organ riffs

Beauty yields to grunting: girl/boy harmonies,
fecal toms, worried strings. Grunts that catch
and build to frenzy, little itty biddy noises
Mouse grunts-low, low dreamy grunts

as brickbats hit oppressors, shields fall, piths
zwing. Spring offers its business solutions
to that vacant e-kisok, me: Blake's Zoas,
Yeats's gyres, Pound's dollars, my cream.

In a sonnet, this line acts as pivot: if sweet,
should gently curdle, if dark add creamy tincture
to grunts of private grief. Chimps, too, grunt in couplets
Male to male, female to male: grunts of glee and longing

as last orders finally closes. Grunt, sweet reader,
low & slowly; Evening creams all
with its gloaming. O, stars