Three Poems

Warning Silo

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I’m from the future, not 20 years from now
when I’m a general commanding the new
continental army, overseeing

the government’s time travel
stuff-No, I’m from later tonight. I slip
into a worm hole or a cosmic string

when I hit the gravel ditch off I-94
in the middle of a spring storm
which hasn’t yet started

but will pull up little pines
throughout St. Cloud before
I make the jump back. I can’t

do anything about the coming storm,
but I’m determined to fly
to my apartment, to find

myself, to warn myself
about anything important
I’ve learned in the last few hours

that might save me or help me make
a nest egg to fund my research. Trouble
is, I can’t figure out what will save me,

where I’m at, or where I’ve been. I hope
they haven’t found me. When I was a boy-
white gloves and sleeve protectors

for comics-staring each night
at the moonlit silo on the edge
of beans, I swore that even if

I rule over the future
counsel on time travel, I’ll keep
my priority on returning

to tell myself I’ll be okay.
When you find this, it might be
too late.

Prayer to the American Goddess

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Dear Oprah, giver of life, death,
and Ford Tauruses, Oh, where did you go,
O? Where is our guide? How will we know
the books, gizmos, and diets
you’ve sanctified? Have you
forsaken us? How will soccer moms
shake off suicide and sense that Palin’s
a twit and Barack’s Adonis?
For your finale, they made a garden
of your set. James Frey, in a cold sweat,
kissed your cheek. The Network
drug you up Lake Shore Drive.
We threw smug stones at your
bountiful bodice, and on a hill
in Grant Park, they crucified you,
our American Goddess. Tom Cruise,
the prig, jumped on the nails. Travolta
warbled “Amazing Grace” as they raised
your Versace cross. Atop your wig,
a jeweled crown of thorns, as you cried out,
“Why, haven’t we cut to commercial?
This really hurts.” We didn’t. You died.
Tyra stabbed Dr. Phil, silly man.
We giggled. Ellen, our new pearl, danced
over the bodies to a song she picked:
“Hollaback Girl.” They aired a montage
of you being you, telling us how to be us.
We calmed, returned to our little lives,
now empty each day at 4 o’clock. Our Oprah,
who art in Harpo, hallowed be thy fame.
The world’s your studio kingdom come.
Your will be done to give us this day
our daily advice or tickets to the set
of Paradise. Amen.

He Doesn’t Know the End

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of Jesus Fights the Crocodile. He tells
Christ’s miracles as bedtime stories, gifts
of grace to weave with dreams. His daughter sifts
his golden threads from heaven’s spool, not hell’s.

He’s sure she knows his stories aren’t the same
as magic vases, swords, and such, till she
begs to tell the bestest Jesus story
she knows. With pride, he thinks, she’ll tell The Lame

Walks or The Blind Sees. But the croc eats Christ
in her prologue-Crunched his teeth; Jesus cried
and fell like this-she swoons-and Jesus died
like Bambi’s mom. She turns away. She’s sliced

his truth. He feels lame, blind, and begs, No, wait-
what happened next? She grins: Dad, he got ate.