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


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.