Two Poems

(written this morning before i got out of bed)

from the pulpit
my fathers glance could mold you like cheese
all cuttings up scared straight by a look
that promised the meanest greenest switch
ashy legs could imagine once
church was out

(and this one last night, before i went to sleep)

there are three homeless men who camp
in the doorway
outside my window
across the street.

i think of them whenever it rains;

how horrible, how sad to live
in a doorway!
and i'll watch them for a while turning in sleepingbags to find
a soft spot beneath the cardboard and old gum
atop the concrete before turning

to answer the phone
have a snack
read a poem
masturbate.

and this
is what structural violence does;

it overwhelms the heart to disconnection
leaves you shivering and wet, but only theoretically
because inside your room
is cozy
and dry.