Poetry

Surprised by ageand then my father diesActually dies, actuallyChanges form & goes, physicallyInto a small rosewood boxImploded like a star, negativeOn a little table under an awningI have to trust is put into the earth

You let that drop, and I know where you’re from.I know the verbal tic of my hometown—the one I ran so hard from with my kid,some books, and mended pocketsful of hope. I seen it shrug off cornfields like a coat,lie bare and cold and calloused with concrete.I seen it lose steel jobs, oil jobs,…

I live in the basement of the lake.I live on the bottom of the moon.I pry her birch bark loose, grazefor centipedes that swim the heart-wood beneath. I burn the prisondown and climb the gate. Morningafternoon and night, I kiss my jaileron his thin white lips. I am two crowslaughing in a poison eucalyptus. I…

In the dark bedroom, moonlightthreads the latticed door.I hold out a bowl of warm noodlesfor Mother. She wipes droolfrom the corner of her mouth,rose-cotton scarf tied around her head.Blood moon bathes our feeton the cold granite floor.Begonia unfurls a leaf. In two weeks,she will be gone.All autumn I shall lie on her cot,absence swathing my…

Hearing the news scares her into wordslike boobs, then my girls comes bobbling out—but her daughter’s words are serious (diagnosis)and she tries to listen but just can’t keep herselffrom reminiscing about her hourglass figureand men she dated years and years beforewho called her Sweater Girl. Silence.Will this daughter give up? Or like the deershe sang about in church, crazed with thirst,crashing through…

For David Shapiro If you are happy you will be sadIf you are sad you can be happyIf you are happy Daddy says control yourselfIf you are happy Mommy wants to be happy tooIf Mommy is happy you must be sadIf you are sad Mommy feels betterIf Mommy feels better Daddy is happyIf Daddy is…

Through Hell and what he saw the dead one thereI wrote a poem of the dead one goingAnd who alive is more than that          the deadOne going          and who is less          how he was ledThrough by a bird named Law like law all-knowingWhere all is anguish and guilt spoils the air And now to write again I ask…

Some turnto the kitchen sink,I prefer backyards.Perfect noonfor cleaning mackerel. No gloves.Squat low and leanforward. Fine drizzleon Moringa,scaling. Scatter of silver. Blood smear.Gutting innardsis more addictivethan love or tea.Spawning clouds of August. Last night,I dreamed of wakinginto you, lazilyinhaling monsoon.Moon seeding in my womb.

                                               there is a                                                 welcome                                                     posture                                             the sun does                                                 I wait for it                                                  hold myself                                             against it all day                                              hang a string on                                                                 my ear                                                                     with a                                                               note saying                                      let’s get this place cracking                                                 your encouragement                                                         was everything                                                     at first I thought                                                  your tiny sponge                                           was no match for                                        my muddy                                    window                                     I want to be                                       the friend                                         who accepts                                            your gifts                                              sing with                                               wind as                                                though                                              it is a                                           duet                                          then                                        suddenly it is                                   none of them                                    write poems                                          any more                                            the spirit                                          said don’t                                     speak to me                                    you have lost                                    your position                                       in my heart                                             make                                              a noise                                              to get the mouse                                              looking over here                                            all gravity ever did                                          was hold us down                                        whether or not                                       falling gets up                                     in the middle                                      of the night for                                       a little falling                                        in love or                                         falling off                                           a cliff                                            I’m fine to never                                            see them again                                            but I do miss                                            their poems                                          he threw                                      away the only                                        recording of the                                                poet                                             moths circle the                                        brightly lit head of                                      the reporter telling                                        us the body count                                          of the latest war                                                    in the rot                                            and filth of a                                         landfill is the                                         poet’s voice                                         I cannot                                         stand it                                         my god                                         picking                                        through                                      garbage                                   I hear you                                  poet-antidote                                      keep singing                                   I will find you                                      please don’t                                       stop singing                                                           for ten years                                                 I lived in my car                                                  people asked                                  where are you going              I always said I’m traveling away                the wanderer the road knows                  the intestinal trans expatriate                               I met a man who feared                               termites though his house                                                was made of stone                                                      I wrote on truck                                                                     stop walls                                            DEAR SLEEPWALKERS                                             EVERY US TAXPAYER                                        IS A WEAPONS DEALER                                         in Mississippi I touched                                            the pig’s heart in a jar                                          for weeks I saw other                                               worlds of clover                                                 could sense the                                                   romantic fusion                                                    of living and                                                     dying in a                                                     frying pan                                                   left with a                                                divulgence                                             what else is                                           paradise losing                                       if not our trust