I grabbed a chunk of "God the Broken Lock" by David Rivard. I was trying to get a line that included something about God being a hangnail, but I missed it. Here's what I worked with:
And a million others might be like me, our hopes
a kind of illegal entry, a belief in smashed windows,
like breaking & entering into a concert hall,
the place my friend & I crawled into an air shaft, & later
fell asleep. After breakage
there is always sleep.
We woke to gospel hymns from the dressing room
below, songs commending
embrace to the fists, & return to the prodigal.
And hasn't my luck always been a shadow, stepping out, stretching?
I mean I trust what breaks.
A broken bone elicits condolence,
and the phone call sounds French if the transmission fritzes,
and our brains--our blessed, desirable brains--are composed
of infinitesimal magnets, millions of them
a billionth-of-a-milligram in weight, so
they make us knock our heads against hard walls.
When we pushed through the air vent,
Here are my "response" lines. I might do what I did with the Morrison poem: run them all together to further muck up the expected bits, the obviously sensical bits.
scoffed like shoes by the smart passersby
as an oracle for the subconscious, a way in
ringing like a glass harp
while the music is playing, forbidden to enjoy or be moved
couldn’t get back out. One of us had to die.
because sleep forgives all sins, pieces the broken pot.
No one can rob us of what we have in our mouths, our skulls.
practicing for God, pseudo-prayers, salvation as theater
some hell-beast, perhaps ironic, perhaps sincere
reversion to some lost, innocent, pugnacious girlhood
It wanes at noon, grows thin and chancy at four.
Fatalistic, I dive into the quarry.
scrawls on the smelly plaster, alliances that break with the saw
because confusion makes us all half again as eloquent
when we sleep and unraveled with the yanking of our waking
like stars pulling us heavenward
tiny a moth could sneeze them into smithereens
as if we could shake out some smarts, or love, or sanity
pulling the grime of breath with us on our coats,
Rivard's full poem is here.
I'll have a draft of something shortly.