Dark hairs above her lips are exposed
by your lens. Behind this photo
looms a large volume of Western art.
A coin bought your admission, your presence,
keeps her eyes closed, keeps her voice silent
as if she were dead.
Sorry about my uncooperative nature
but I’m just not into accepting snake oil
and being bamboozled and sold
on da boastful and promising pitch.
The 30 year old cool kids are emptying their children and youth all over the parking lot. Dirty diapers without an owner that once belonged to their kids or maybe themselves, smelling like a hefty child support court story...
if we shimmer, somehow,
above our ivory clouds;
if we are to them
as silvered fish
but it appears they take themselves where
taken their destiny is all that’s behind them on
the road and that child’s voice not even a memory
within an architecture of raw air
(Cy Twombly triptych, an
innocent & pre-
plastique Michael
Jackson concert, a
touched de Chirico).
Whenever I wake from a bad dream, my murderer gives me homework. He’s there waiting. Not at the edge of the bed, as one might assume, with a hand resting calmly on my back, but sitting alone in the dim light of the kitchen.
the sun skims across their faces everyday
razing red-hot and cancerous skin
in time all the stones will turn black
and melt away like Icararuswings.
hips puddled pale on the asphalt
path, where lately space has been
spread a blanket of columbines,
weeds seeded out in puffs hugging
her silence all after, reckoning.
To defend José Lezama Lima is a right
defend him from God and from the hell
of majuscules and luck
stiff-necks and influxes
of the azure
is family style, is by the book.
Is none of my bid'ness.
They have a joy-free smoke,
a homemade drink.
They came from the four corners of the country
from remote places, walled off, cut off
and secluded from civilization,
practically removed from the map,
people of many clans, customs, and cultures
6. The Protesters: massed in the streets,
shouting, lifting signs high in the air,
all to no avail. It was over—they just
did not know.
Jim Dandy takes his place in the soup queue,
Huck Finn just behind, and they
laryngitis whisper: it ain’t worth being
civilized, advertised, mesmerized,
They were young.
Maybe not the brightest.
But among the most intrepid.
They were not Hitler youth.
Their motto wasn’t “Blood and Honor.”
Curbside beers, meals of tramp stew,
collapse a minister’s graven idol imagery,
diminish metaphor and the morning.
Rancor falls, random as a star.
I have no sense of the way home.
They turned the torture zone into a tourist site
the torturers all got jobs showing busloads
of foreign schoolkids where the tor
tures used to take place.
But we remember also the marches
against the wars of horror and shattered bones
who would cry out against Napalm
the burning of villages, not just
one who prophesied in the '60's train
but many friends, many friends
I became certain of silence, its
speech more relevant amid my
open hands releasing what was
learned among irrelevant
histories
she adored the aroma of nicotine on ripped fabric and
the appealing white-stains on abandoned evening gowns
these new signs became
her own innovative Rorschach tests
and I pull a Hart Crane, and leap,
and my body dissolves, just a bit
of brine in the expanse of the Atlantic,
and my memories spread,
oil slick across the surface of the wake,
At the afternoon concert, the parade and the pyrotechnics
at the arboretum, will the fanfare feel genuine?
important is how, despite your contempt
-ous gaze at the universe, you won’t take
the logical step of slashing your belly while
a courtier-for-hire ensures the dance of your
head down the steps as it hops down towards
the River Danube, once a long-standing frontier
"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is more important to me than my wife. But there is no one left to fight
and no one knows me and I know no one well. That's good,
"there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope."
after three surgeries to get good margins
after a summer of sleepless nights and worrisome days
i remember i sat across from my wife
in the legendary vegas diner
with a dumb smile on my face
They come from underneath the
bridge; at least that’s what
someone said, and I’ve seen
their cardboard condos and
fresh air laundry alight on
the wind. I get startled
All the spare parts to rarify
They really ice the migraine dead
Doozey up and explode coffee earrings
Superstitions and the perfect Rorschach bandage
Breathtaking, route-faking, peace-making
the one the old sketch artist
is still dreaming of
with his eyes closed
calling her "daughter"
calling her "dragonfly"
Watch, he says:
my prey will come to me.
Fish were slipping back
to the garden, hoping
to emerge as something else.
They were snapped up,
Tell me about the heft of righteousness
in the hand, the percussive wish
to draw blood. Recount the wince
savored on the palate, the sob
The days of slavery are passé, which signals the end
to empires & all their indentured servants called
CEO’s (yes), plus housewives, teachers,
& duly elected politicians, plus blood diamonds
& bank notes tied to the bomb, the bomb squad,
One Trump supporter prays to a 6' cardboard cut-out of his hero each morning as he leaves the house. No one can pinpoint when this happened. They are hyphenated anti-Americans.
you are quivering
in sanitary hostility
on a red red face.
You are a vanishing drain
of attention.
The dream of a lake surrounding a
lake is the dream of a fried egg
resting on your face; the dream of
the fried egg is the dream of a
fork swirling in the bottom of a
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