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Postmodern Postmortum 


by Beth Houston





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The text called Deconstruct tapes the typed text
(My poem) to the blackboard. Gestures complex
And desperate slash one big bold felt-tip X
Across my chest. A cross, he fears, has hexed
Creative sense. Inquisitor, he’s vexed
By closures, foundations, presence like sex
Communion/communication, rejects
My meaning. Is perspective so perplexed,
Impotence so obsessed with its con-vexed
Mirror it foregrounds absence? His sneer suspects
What’s centered yet cold “erasure” inspects
It like porn. Jealous murder game selects
Differance: Suicide — what one expects
From killers. Eros pays his last respects.

 St. Francis Preaching to the Birds


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