Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Ice storm? Anyone?

DIY Foot Washing

I never meant to hypnotize us
and not your little man Swerve inside
at the drive through strip club.
Me and the line of cars looking
like a fluffy white dog,
a delicious face, serious
enough to bring home.

Swerve is feeding us
apple seeds and hopes the cyanide
will kill us. Deep in his own voltage
he feels like an octopus
working with three hearts.

Swerve is paying off kids
in the village and bathing us in
the kitchen sink. He promises
burlap shirts for our territories,
bit parts in forgotten songs
about trains. The war is small and not
many people are dying; we're shooting
skin over our eyes in a statement of purpose,
but who can resist the 60 watt bulb
charging up our leg fluid.

DIY Foot Washing

I never meant to hypnotize us
and not your little man Swerve inside
at the drive through strip club.
Me and the line of cars looking
like a fluffy white dog,
my delicious face, serious
enough to bring home, pretty much
anywhere that could wait until later.

And even now, Swerve is feeding us
apple seeds and hopes the cyanide
will kill us, but as a film projectionist
he's always fucking up the ends,
beaming blue and blaming it
on the marijuana. Deep in his own voltage
he feels like an octopus
working with three hearts.

Swerve is paying off kids
in the village and bathing us in
the kitchen sink. He doesn't know us
until we're done and promises
burlap shirts for our territories,
bit parts in forgotten songs
about trains. The war is small and not
many people are dying, we're shooting
skin over our eyes in a statement of purpose,
but who can resist the 60 watt bulb
charging up our leg fluid.

The Unpacker

Happiness knocked me off the beet pile. In the heat
I unpacked what I could, despite the talk
outside my window, this place was haunted.

Happiness dumped me on a long distance phone call—
left me standing on an ant hill in Austin.
I would have been happier
with 65 mph winds back at Rock Creek
staked firmly in my North Face tent,
while Jen put in her contacts next door.

From where I sat, dry
in the ascetic assembly line, the rain hummed down
constantly, like a refrigerator, like I owned it.
Even with the tread of my running shoes analyzed,
Happiness could tell exactly how many feet
the muzzle-loader knocked me back.

The Unpacker

Happiness knocked me off the beet pile. In the heat
I unpacked what I could, despite the talk
outside my window, this place was haunted. It’s not really
about the garbage disposal anymore
or the outside entrance that I fell in love with,
they never let me down. Was someone here
to say “be careful” when I picked up the broken glass
and found the shower on? It felt like happiness
dumped me on a long distance phone call—
left me standing on an ant hill in Austin
while the bats got treated to a perfect sized home
under the bridge. I would have been happier
with 65 mph winds back at Rock Creek
staked firmly in my North Face tent,
while Jen put in her contacts next door. From where I sat, dry
in the ascetic assembly line, the rain hummed down
constantly, like a refrigerator, like I owned it
and expected it and couldn’t escape it. Even with the tread
of my running shoes analyzed, I could tell exactly how many feet
the muzzle-loader knocked me back. Happiness would say,
you’ll need more than just one shot to stop
these fascinating and intriguing beautiful machines
that built our houses and plugged us into
more than just a crush drizzling to extinction.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Dig it, Captain Jim

Dig it, Captain Jim

Regina’s Slushy was definitely spiked,
her eyebrows definitely painted on,
and her husband, definitely in crotch-high boots.

Every inch of your pontoon
moving down the river, one roasted
peanut after life lesson after the other—

one heron picking up after the other,
a jar of bubbles tossed overboard.
Captain Jim, where are your socks;

where is your sexist boss? The pontoon,
still, in a slip, a mini-marshmallow under
a chair, a baby blanket left behind,

passengers, the crew,
Pontoon and her river,
snoozing side by side.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

dirty minds yellow leaves

This morning November was like September,
the leaves thrashing off the trees in windy excitement,
the birds swooshing like they wanted to be leaves,
and I dragged my dog along behind me
because all she wanted was to bark at everything.

I understand. Soon this autumnal technicolor
will be something we watch on television,
something we find a better adjective for than "technicolor."
But that urge to shout at all of it,to bark hello to the wildness of the outside
in my suburban land: I was glad to have the dog to bark for me.

And then comes the news that my ladyfriend has HPV
and woe to the perils of love, to the fact that the couplings
of our most basic body parts can turn on us
thanks to the evil magic of viruses.
And damn it all I have to stop using the word magic in poems
and damn viruses for being so adaptable, our bright future
turning innappropriately leafy
our strong bodies become feeble
when faced with those cell hijackers

(but check viruses out sometime: this artist has made them
into designs for pillowcases, their structure
has a transcendent geometric beauty.)

So I am praying for her cooter and for the viruses,
may they find another pussy to attack,
and for the cock it came from: may it stop speading geometric madness
stop causing abnormal paps,
and I am praying for autumn,
may it figure out how to get its act together
and realize its November
I should be roasting chesnuts not
walking my dog in a tee shirt.
And that I find myself praying is a whole other complicated fact
but let us call it a modern prayer, a secular prayer,
like a rain dance conducted in the arid south
by a mayor whose municipality craves rain.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Tubes

This week, it's nothing but snorting
coke off of the back of the toilet.
A heroin overdose. Two Cheerios left
behind on the hospital room floor.
You get tubes, find your friend in the paper
talking about bicycles, and tonight
acorns will roll into the street.

Micro-chipped is the flower,
snoring away on a guest room wall.
Stolen muffins, and a glass of water,
the smell of it all.
If you think you got super-sonic hearing
when you were under, it is probably
nothing hot chocolate can't fix.