Poetry

is guns given druthers of meaning or being. the old town look empty but for chattering lace blanching panes awaiting blood for eyes. saltpeter, all. even the buzzards dizzying down washpan dusks. buzzards: God’s hungry fingers. one gun chooses meaning—“this is for”—and sputters. this, for the gun that wins. the other? there’s God’s finger, carnal,…

A flock of pink flamingos moved in across the street, and set up plastic people on the lawn.                     They’ve faced them out this way, hands molded to their chins, looking more like us as night comes on. Downtown, the waitresses are starving in their aprons; the watchmen get fainter by the hour.                    It’s…

Altadena-summer mustard smog sun all yellow as I have become      this year I fear I am fat and wear a t-shirt when swimming    childish    the T-shirt clinging to me through summer the gut of August    summers before when I was born smack for air    this year the smack of water as I…

Muddy my love, love, lick my face with your black boots, shudder my heart’s tick with your own talking hands, explain without words what you see when you see me senseless + overawed, joint-achingly jangled in a love made of nets made of almost-but-not-quite-forgotten-melodies made from the nectar of a fruit never named or harvested…

     Darling, my daddy’s razor strap is in my hands, & there’s a soapy cloud on my face. I’m a man of my word. Didn’t I say, If Obama’s elected, I’ll shave off this damn beard that goes back to ’68, to Chicago? I know, I also said I’d kiss the devil, but first let…

for Big Kenny, Little Kenny, and Joel3 Let us define a topology on the emotion L by declaring a sub-love L1, {Father, Son} to be an open love if and only if it either contains the open mouth kiss, Ø, or contains a series of emotional sequences L(f, s), where L(f, s) = hands open…

I was a fine altar boy, yes. They say I was also angelic, whatever it means this side of hell. My heroes have blood on their hands, & they all look exactly like me. A good suit. A tilt of the hat. A perfect, practiced smile. A white handkerchief in my breast pocket. Shoes polished…

Your green Arcadian hills do not interest me. The bird-bright eyes of every bird cared for, the way it is promised, the way it is written, everyone fat on their share of sun and seed. But I don’t see you in the dark streak of a cat crossing the street or the regal skunk in…

What might it be worth, this memento of my parents’ fifty-year marriage set in a diamond and sapphire crown, too large, too gaudy for my taste? I pass it under the partition to the jeweler who holds it to the light, then under the stern eye of his loupe. (Do you see it, young man?…