I got kissed by a crocodile from head to toe
the toothmarks on the soles of my feet
witness to the truth of this tale. The crocodile
is slightly the worse for wear, swallowing
my head caused a tonsillar hematoma which
had to be removed by Dr. Grinch at his Saturday
morning surgery in Chelsea: a strange location
you will have to admit for the re-arranging
of crocodile parts with knives neither seen
nor used since Roe v Wade. As for me, I had
the stigmata on my feet autographed by God
who was highly complimentary of my ability
to survive since S/he was not ready for me Yet.
Said my Whole in One was theologically profound,
while the crocodile turned horse, no longer swimming
or diving in the Hudson or anywhere else, but rather
attending antiwar rallies with police officers on its
back. The crocodile has lost the battle of poetry
to an unknown poet of uncertain age and less certain
reputation despite attending poetry readings by Dennis
and Bernstein and Ponsot and Mayer
even Steve McCaffery on his 60th birthday in Buffalo.
Title from a line in Steve McCaffery’s 2006 book, Crime Scenes, page 53, published by
Veer Books
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