Missing
a thief in the day
I know tho that was
after the fact like
empty milk in 2
% gravity
I look into thin
spaces searching for
some weight somewhere, a
little less flimflam
and moving curtains
and missing glasses
I now know the front
door is a little
more civilized I
catch the air in each
ear finding my own
density, shoving
the ocean back in
to the conch dirty
red fingerprints are
exactly what we’re
after next to sex
and weed, like the pet
turtle’s scuta marks
the spot under teal
palm tree Lego land
umbrella, light low-
fat carton gripped in
my hand printed the
portrait of this world
The Walt Whitman Bowling Haikus
Planks pitter patter
dance the Dervish pine runway
balls and holes as one
~~~~~~
Sup with me leaguers!
imbibe thy cold-sprung barley
sort us from the weak!
~~~~~~
Oh my filthy holes!
take thee flaming balls to task
grip thy trophy fast!
~~~~~~
Sing, Oh alley, sing!
let our legacy live on
each ball turned to blue
~~~~~~
Thy supported wrist
snow powdered gloved hand and ball
rearrange thy pins
~~~~~~
Kegler, hear the din!
as a bull we charge young lanes
full alley we rent
~~~~~~
America bowls!
today I return used balls
I give my shoes back
~~~~~~
Cold domestic beer
let today be paradise
summer rates are here!
~~~~~~
Semi-pro bowler!
let your handicap a’ shine!
be forever loud!
Nesting Dolls
Faux cloisonné blushed enameled
blues and pinks stands a bunny dew.
And in that bunny dew
is a pied hide ibex of
dappled thunder grey and onyx
set with wide flat teeth in an
eggy oval.
And in that dappled ibex
sits a green thistle-perched frog
with gold scuba finned toes
even more webbed than his own
and covered in British green and toady,
with two long red stripes.
And within that British bullfrog
lay a sleeping princess in
Murakami pajamas—
the ones with multicolored monograms
in cyan, magenta, yellow
and green on a field
of asylum white—
just like her horse.
And nestled along with that
fashion-plate princess
is a little pocket watch dog
with great big long plum
and beige ears and little doggy
socks and shoes in sunny
orange and lime hues.
All of these sit unnested,
anesthetized and scattered
on the imaginary area rug
beneath the aviary bed
with loneliness so loud
you can feel the gravity.
The Holy Wheel
Day three was lording it over
a broken wire wheel that
had just two days prior
slept away a team of midnight
skunks rummaging.
An hour before, like Swiss Army
knives, the action was slick
and worrisome as a brigade
of nuns prayed over the
spokes, desperate for a sign.
Yesterday, the object was
examined by a flock of truants
amidst an afternoon search
and rescue mission. All of
them passed by, not noticing
the illuminate.
What seemed like minutes ago,
a bolt-action buried a strike
plate for the second time within
one of these minutes.
Five years ago, the wheel
belonged to a frame, intact
wrestling with metal, rocks
and water.
Mr. Creeley’s Pigmy Pouter (for Kevin Killian)
It’s dry, so I depart
to the wetter virtues
of my nature,
to the floating iceberg
where champion pigeons
are poured from eggs,
for only a moment—
a true measure of time,
immeasurable.
I climb everywhere
and climb, and climb,
and climb; leaving my
lungs on some
San Francisco hill.
Then, coffee and MOMA,
where the hydraulics
in my testes function
in conjunction
with crossing the catwalk…
Dear Sir,
I am writing to inform you of the potentially epizootic situation that exists
in the Richard Tuttle exhibit. There is a large rusted nail that protrudes
dangerously out from the work entitled, “Beethoven Stop on the Way to Egypt.”
I am concerned that should a patron become momentarily disoriented,
or misguided by an angry docent, they could easily become impaled
upon the nail, creating a religious object of which one would then regrettably
have to leave word of explanation on Mr. Tuttle’s answering machine.
Thankfully, I was navigated ably out of harm’s way by my tour guide, Dolores,
thereby avoiding entirely any such religious experience, and removed
to the safety of the museum book store.
This is exactly where
the pigeons come in—
right at that very moment
when nothing else
matters except the blue ribbon,
and tomorrow she’s done;
all the recessive traits
in the world won’t save us,
and won’t matter by Monday.
But when the moment
is right now, and they are
in that moment, it is poetry.
Like the lusty young bierfrau
with blonde braids,
a chronic smile,
trussed in a woman’s body,
in a city that I am leaving
in an hour.
Can anything be purer
than the subordinance of poetry,
when the echo still calls,
the hydraulics kick in,
when the Bavarian
voluptuously pours?
No matter really—
the trick is keeping stock,
and taking stock,
so the next grand champion
has a place and a time,
and preferably a moment
to remember him by.
Krakatoa
was there, was not
filling the top
a bottomless pit
time
a weightless pocket
the physical sense
of invisible
pressure
a uniform touch
smothering taste
sight, smell
sound
this one took
the others
by
force
The Tattoo I Didn’t Get
trapped in a blizzard
of mink-clad
nymphs
drowsy with donor
fatigue
in the land of
edward
scissorhands
where the
infomercial is king
as instinctive as a
vine
in the blue marble
organism
which doesn’t allow
the other—
the sea or the shore?
“this is me,” says
she,
saying ‘good-bye’
and the door
becomes murky
and I’ve seen this
murk before
is anyone asking
questions
anymore?
while in
this détente
you give me a
“pre-emptive strike”
so how are we
supposed to be
a six-legged couple?
right now, I’m going
to go
into town and rape
some
grand pianos
intention is one
thing
effect is another
but nobody’s name
goes on
the small of my
back!
The Poultry Put the Pieces of the Abduction Puzzle Together
Barring the necessity
to castrate the bull,
the fence mender’s
ineptitude,
the cows wooing mooing—
an altogether staid day
begins on the ranch.
The smoking chickens
share a toke and a scratch
wearing clam digger feathers.
A bantam Red
was robbed last night.
Two foxes—unregistered
sex offenders.
Below, the souls of urchins
ruined by time and masters.
Subterranean red riverbed dried
springs amaranthine crops,
spirals and keys—
a dance of foreign semaphore.
Babylonian Bride
this is no artist
statement
this isn’t about
troop movements,
ship sailings,
or war
equipment
this poem
writes itself
and wants
to be
a sonnet
I have not
said
a word
I am only
the bride
welcome
to the
agency
of my poem
I have been
fired
and I wish
to file
a grievance
that this
is not even
Italian
it is my
life
looking
downward
sterling
cross
kinetic
around
a soft nape
moaning
God bless this chest
how can
the heart
go on
from beyond
the living?
dead heart fools
how do they
attract?
do they come
out from
behind
the cold,
like summer?
I am at
the altar,
betrothed to
the 1st thing
that comes
down
the aisle
I am
an arranged
Babylonian
bride
a Christian
for the
lion
this wants
to be
the volta
what good
is a
volta
going to do
me now?
I washed
myself
like Jackson
Pollock
clean scented,
standing in
black
and grey
shoes—
one of each
I exist
in couplet
Anonymous Sarcophagus 