Ars Poetica with Invocation

Which way to the monster cage? I am in my god body now—

in my sandy foxhole

sat backwards in a chair.

I wintered in a lighthouse

not far from here. My imagination,

my monastery. My little monk feet

clack about my mugwort garden: a tisket, a tasket,

a green and yellow basket. Try it.

Push against me as hard as you can. Still I will

go on swinging my war ax,

despite my stringbean heart. All the queen’s horses

and all the queen’s men could not stop

the scritch of my pen.