star circles

before the black

becomes the grey,

the tatters of night

bleed into day.

in that neutral

absence, before

it renders the red

with many names,

the stars,

trace their

nightly arcs.

it takes too long

to see rotation,

but you can

feel them move.

if you let yourself

get slow enough.

dawn

bruised peach sky

before the sunrise

his curled body

lies on a bench

boots untied,

the laces dangling,

a pink blanket

with cartoon puppies

drapes everything

but the boots.

sunrise on drumm street

in the big fountain, drained for repairs

a well-dressed chinese woman

wearing latex gloves and rubber boots,

walks carefully inside,

picking up dimes and nickels

off the slimy concrete.

on a bed of flattened cardboard

in a doorway, under a filthy

off-white blanket, two people quietly fuck.

the wild parrots scream

in the naked poplars across the street.

a thin man, in stain-blotched jeans,

stands at the foot of an outdoor stairway

immobilized, and growling.

he holds a green cellophane

candy wrapper in one hand,

reading the ingredients
and barking and making

no move to climb the steps.

untitled #59

if i had a million words

they'd still blow away like dust,

each second chained

to the last one and the next one,

moments impaled on a collector's pin,

scrutinized and recorded in careful notes

that crawl like a snail beneath the ivy

leaving an iridescent sheen

until the rain comes, if it ever will.

the streets will still be carnivals

and butcher shops,

i'll keep casting a hook for the moon.

the mulberry trees

where i found my mother weeping

will flourish, then fall and rot.

i might still imagine a table

with two cups that sit,

a drop of coffee drying on one

where it ran down from the lip,

and a fly wandering

near a bowl of raw sugar

exploring a pale crumbling lump

like she'd found heaven.

and those aren't

my hoofprints

in the mud.

sunrise moonset

I don't remember ever

seeing an orange moon set

hanging just to the left of

the mountain princess,

the sleeping one the men who

kept watches on chains in their vests,

made up the story about.

They said it was an ancient tale

that belonged to the people

who had lived there

before they removed them

with guns, disease, and legislation.

This winter's dirty air

tinged the moon with pink

an ornamental flair

to ease the stink

of sentimental inventions:

a blend of Pocahontas,

and Sleeping Beauty.

a Victorian notion of maidenhood,

and the sweet afterglow

of expropriation.

home delivery

ain't seen nothing

as amazing

as the gold finch

that just snatched

some kind of fly

from the december

sky and landed

on the railing

of my porch.

my phone

can't hold a torch

to that kind

of feather, bone,

eye and muscle,

machinery. forget about

amazon drones.

if i could just hire

a flock of finches

i'd have a deep supply

-all that i could wish for-

of moths and flying ants,

dandelion seeds, and spiders.

helicopters and christmas lights

twinkle twinkle christmas lights

helicopters out tonight

the enlisted men's club at ft black jack

in december, was well stocked

with black forest ham and cheese

on cute little local buns

and plenty of local beer

for we boys in olive drab.

the jukebox alternated between john denver

yearning for a country road in west virginia

and the o'jays urging people all over the world

to get on board the love train, love train...

four sergeants who all looked liked

they'd eaten beach balls

-along with their butter broasted chickens,

were sitting at the only booth in the club

playing poker.

top sergeant carpenter was methodically

draining all their paychecks.

i had received a package from home in the mail,

a transparent plastic toy ray gun

with red and yellow gears inside

that turned with each squeeze of the trigger

and shot out one inch sparks.

kind of festive.

the indiana farm boys

were jousting with the brothers

from south side chicago

on the foosball table.

i saw the four sergeants

fanning their cards

over their distended guts

and approached the table, 

pulled the trigger over and over

as fast as i could squeeze it,

until the ray gun broke in half

ending my attack.

four fat sergeant mouths

sagged into their greasy jowls

and i walked out of the club

into the moonlight on the asphalt

between the low barracks.

the jukebox leaked a song by

harold melvin and the blue notes

out the window:

if you don't know me by now,

you will never ever know me….

sidebar: the scent of '72

the back of the deuce and a half

smells like rust and pasture.

and beech trees. chimney smoke.

pig shit sprayed on fields.

soldiers' zigaretten.

and boot polish.

corporal johnson's hangover

JP-4 jet fuel burning

in the missile system

power station.

hashish. a urinal

with a goldfish.

weiner schnitzel

frying at the roadhouse

carnations in

the plaza.

pomme frites

mit senf.

kaffee.

snow.

which smelled like footsteps

in the silence of the pines.

big cowboy voice

his big cowboy voice

barks at what time is

stealing from him.

hair and muscle, memory,

unassisted erections.

but there are clubs for those.

and medications.

no backward spinning

clocks and calendars -yet.

he doesn't scare the sky,

it stays just as dry or wet

as it would have anyway.

but poison is another

thing he's good at,

isn't it?

darling.

Ulm

she keeps trout

in a fish trap

in the stream

that licks her house.

he sharpens his knives

in the shop, whistling hymns

and dreaming of saturday

venison. roasted.

the monks are black

the flowers red

the spire spies

them all.

 -dead eight hundred

years behind

the wall and the river

where a hover

of trout linger, hungry as ever

the smith and his wife were

on a friday in the shadow

of the Münster's tower.

at the Heretics Cafe

Gene waits for Jenny

at the Heretics Cafe

checks the wall clock

with the Che Guevara beret

and beard smiley face again.

looks at his phone.

stares out the window.

A squad of cheerleaders

sporting pink surgical masks

rides past on bamboo frame

electric bicycles.

Jenny arrives, a little breathless

and pink cheeked, shedding

her quilted Mao jacket

as she weaves between

the tables full of laptop junkies.

-Sorry. The bus hit a coyote

and everybody got out.

they wouldn't let the driver go

until this lady tried to move it

off the street. the poor thing

tried to bite her. 

-wow. so what happened?

-I think maybe it was just stunned

because she put it on the sidewalk

and tried to cover it with her

hello kitty sweater and then it

just got up and ran off into the park.

-weird.

-yeah. so. how are you?

-ok. just the……

-same old same old….

-uh huh. how 'bout you?

-I'm cool. basically.

-basically?

- yeah. the usual drama at work. Jerry's all worked up

  about this proposal, driving everybody crazy.

-right. so what else is new?

-not much. coyotes.

-yeah. you hungry? wanna order something?

-sure. what do they got here?

-ummm. pigeon tacos. kelp noodles.

-seriously? what about a bagel?

-yeah. gluten free.

-oh. maybe just a latte. i don't suppose that comes

 with something other than like, yak milk……

-bison.

-naturally. ok.

Jenny threads her way to the counter.

The guy taking orders says

-what can I get you?

- I'd like a small latte.

-ok. anything else?

Jenny peers into the glass case

some kind of black hairy muffinish things

wilted thistles, a plate of what could be

either roasted marshmallows or mushrooms

-No, just the latte, please.

-I'll bring it to your table. where you sitting?

-over there with the guy with the Leon Trotsky trucker hat

-cool. you a friend of Gene's?

-yeah.

-too bad about Katherine.

- what do you mean?

- oh. I thought you knew, she…….well I think you

  better ask him, I don't want to tell tales out of school.

-yeah. You wouldn't want to do that. thanks. I guess...

She walks back to the table

where Gene is sitting.

no one looks up from their screens.

on the wall behind Gene

is a large painting in the style of Thomas Kincaid:

a thatch-roofed English cottage

with a garden, where a mohawked Vladimir Lenin

is dancing a jig and Marilyn Monroe

is handing a rose to Saddam Hussein.

Groucho Marx stands in the doorway taking a selfie.

-Interesting place, Gene. it fits you.

-you think so? I guess it does, now that you mention it.

-how's work? last time I saw you you were about

  to take off to Wichita for some installation.

-yeah, that was pretty cool, not at all what I expected.

-like what?

-well you know, Kansas! i thought it would be all Dorothy and Toto.

-and?

- My client was Cesna, you know, the airplane company?

-right.

-well there were the usual engineer geeks, and they were

  actually pretty cool, into music and art and stuff,

  we could hang out, have a conversation that didn't revolve around sports.

  not everyone of course, there were some more rednecky types too.

-cool.

-yeah.

-so did you get to go up in any planes?

-yes, as a matter of fact. one of the senior engineers

 arranged for me to ride along on test flights a few times.

-what did they think about your gray water reclamation system?

-oh at first they thought it was funny, you know,

 they were like, barnacles? you use barnacles? do they have names?

 they teased me a bit, called me Barnacle Bill or Barny? I told them
 they weren't even barnacles, they're mussels...but it was all in good fun.

- nice. so Gene, what do think about going someplace else

  to grab a bite? this place is way cool, but what about something

  a little less exotic?

-sure. what are you in the mood for? taqueria? soup and salad? chinese?

-any one of those would be fine. then you can tell me about katherine. Is that ok?

-Sure, there's not much to tell. But lets walk down the street, see what tickles your tummy.

They put on their coats and leave. no one looks up from their screen.

sidebar

sidebar: see:

t-shirts hanging above the entrance

splashed with faces, Che Guevara, Al Capone

luggage on the sidewalk,

empty, waiting to go

beside the payroll loan and check cashing joint

and the locksmith snuggles up

to the strip club where the marquee says

live nude girls continuous

on the corner

a sign climbs up the wall:

oddfellows temple

and underneath it is a restaurant named oasis

with donuts, barbecue and chinese

the entrance to the subway has

three men clustered over

the delicate pages of some holy book

one aims a close-up camera

capturing some screed

sidebar: read:

buy military surplus

surrogate mothers wanted, 18K, live at home

looking for love? meet singles in your area

72-hour mormon survival kits

spam skillet casserole recipe

watch uncensored tv from around the world

lint eater vent cleaning system: important consumer alert

how to train your native indian dog fast with no hitting or scolding

are you a monkey? find out in this lecture

sidebar: hear:

i was one minute late this morning...

-yeah?

...delayed by a lady

...had to get a blow job

-yeah of course, did you see Caddy Shack last night?

they were showing it in the parking lot

at another table, talk of bombs and kids

and earnest discussion of art ghost theories

and comparisons of each others shoes

sidebar: scream:

sirens,

the trickle of gravel

from a hole in the roof

and the buzz of a fly

and the roll of thunder

on a cloudless day

a proposal for some new special interest channels

the paper clip and stapler channel,

the watching sheep leap fences channel,

the burning ants with a

magnifying glass channel,

the sorting gravel channel,

soap operas that feature

a torrid romance

between ivory and tide

and their futile attempt to hide

their secret love child, downy.

celebrity dancing with brooms,

pitching pennies with the stars.

live readings of the yellow pages.

a special for men

who love washing dishes

and women who like to iron

home tours of junior

account  managers

who like to collect string

and make giant balls.

symphonies written for

spoons and kazoos

performed in the nude

by chemistry teachers

and firemen. the composer

flips burgers at wendy's

by day, his opus was written

on napkins with ketchup.

world championship

whittling tournaments

live from the porch

of the governor's mansion.

macaroni mona lisas
in six easy lessons

and if you stay up late enough,

at 3:45 a special infomercial:

how to play hopscotch

and earn two thousand

dollars a week. at the office.

dreaming of a glass vein

-tie me off

Lizard and Di Martini are back

from six days AWOL in Amsterdam,

dreaming about having a glass vein

in their arms, a port where the crystal

could just slide in, like plugging in

a speaker jack from a teac amp.

Lizard used to be a golden gloves boxer

from somewhere up the hudson

now he weighs something about

like four pillows strapped to a broom.

they have watches with chunky metal bands

that they imagine flatter toothpick wrists.

-hold my arm

he eases the point into the vein

and draws some blood up into the barrel

where it mixes with the crank,

then slowly pushes the plunger,

sending the warm magic

to his craving brain and body

the instant rush takes him deep.

he leans back on the bunk

against the wall, eyes closed,

a post orgasmic drift

into realms of ecstasy.

he's riding a cosmic wave

that breaks upon the shore

of this darkened barracks room

with a tie-dyed parachute

suspended from the ceiling

and a song is playing

on the best of the best brand stereo:

".......are you reelin' in the years

stowin' away the time

are you gatherin' up the tears

have you had enough of mine......"

Lizard moans ......oh man......

Di Martini sighs..........oh yeah.....

the stereo plays on.