Ed Dorn’s Douglas Woolf

“America” is a smug, hardhearted, unforgiving nation of jackals, which
forever slaps itself on its back over how generous, selfless and idealistic it is. It is the most preposterous propaganda barrage since
Goebbels ran an office, in bloodier and more interesting times.

You go to the window. You look out at the immense night. You see the plow, you see the dipper, you see the fish and you see the net. Every thing blood and bone ever needed is shown and displayed in the sky. You can hunker down and pay the mortgage, and save yourself a lot of trouble, or you can see the show. There actually isn’t any other choice.
For a mere traveller has no access to the haunts...

Edward Dorn: The Air of June Sings

My eyes avoid

the largest
stone, larger than the common large, Goodpole Matthews,

Pioneer, and
that pioneer sticks in me like a wormed black cherry

in my throat,
No Date, nothing but that zeal, that trekking

and Business, that
presumption in a sacred place, where children

are buried, and
where peace, as it is in the fields and the country

should reign. A
wagon wheel is buried there. Lead me away

to the small
quiet stones of the unpreposterous dead and leave

me my tears for Darling we love thee, for
Budded on earth and blossomed

in heaven, where the fieldbirds sing in the
fence rows,

and there is possibility, where there are not the loneliest of
all.

Oh, the stones
not yet cut...