Two Songs

I cannot sing the modern world -
the world unmade by man
and dragged through philosophy and deceit
behind the iron horse,
drawn and quarterly dividended,
bull and bears**t smeared across the face
of the made-up deep-throat media man
seeking ratings and euphoria at the
expense of truth and the legitimate uses of a
hypodermic needle.
Manself unmade is mute and none will mourn.

I can sing the only world made by my God,
and brother sun and sister moon, made rulers
with me therein, and friends, companions, all
unsuitable, the beats and fish and fowl, and
that one companion meet for me,
not any other than her whose belly is a heap of wheat
smoothed down with weight and love and child,
and Christ the elder brother and the Spirit,
that life that deepdown things believe
and all true poets sing back the only king.
That I can sing.