Tony Trigilio

Confidence is Prick Weak Since Last Summer


Confidence is prick weak since last summer

and our colonial footpath is in a tizzy.

The idiosyncratic garden, the litigant tear-

jerker—right on par from torch to boulevard.

Maybe the deadbeat will pulse something off.

Soviet Florida and Cincinnati will not be happy.

“The revolutionary party must hold together

in dialectical unity two levels of force and consent,

authority and hegemony, violence and civilization,

agitation and propaganda, tactics and strategy.”

No creepy-crawly, half-sister configuration.

No decent footwork squawked by any mechanism.

A nap, the sixth tease at the stripper pole:

our airlift is likely to stay, indisposed to footnote.

The War on Christmas

A self-starting motorboat giggles the still

lake, pulling away after midnight mass.

Every single chapel grows tender, puts forth

leaves, fulminates. Pronounces itself taller

than any heaven the retina can detect.

In the churchyard, we hoard cupfuls of thistle,

craving the dope of eternal lilt. How tall we can

become, how brave we think we are, praying,

mittens held above our winter pom-pom hats.

We scamper in humble confinement or donate

what’s left of our stash to the rosy-cheeked,

jolly old maniac who distributes gimmicks

to kids posed before the tree with AR-15s.

We understand the past by tampering with it.

To Treat Inoculation as Innuendo

To treat inoculation as innuendo makes

no sense at all. “Nobody should be forced

to cure the body if they’re not OK with it.”

Welcome, anti-vaxxer, you can plug

the sundial anywhere you find an outlet

in the portico. Transistor radio batteries

are hiding in plain sight in the kitchen

junk drawer of the waterproof shack.

All it takes to strip the trees is the waddle

and stroll of a patriot. “The Renaissance

actually was an insurrection.” Nobody

should be forced to age outside the demo-

graphic, longing for the honey compass

and carnival, if they’re not OK with it.