Her nerves wrap around a mystery
she doesn’t need to solve
till they become entrapped. Nothing
gets solved. May as well make
like an archaic torso
of a god—lamp lit—
and change your life.
Everyone is a thief
in the dark after hours.
Month: September 2014
Way Before Daffodil
Cradled between merry-go-round
and satellite,
the first words
he would say to her
were an insult
wrapped inside
an error becomes erotic
presumption blanketed
with snotty affection.
Is it a deep blue
sleeveless floral button-down baby
doll dress
with a collar, or
a maternity
jumper? Didn’t your mother
teach you
it isn’t
polite to ask
if a woman is
knocked-up? To her face?
As she dances? To your music?
Damn, boy! Is it mine? Just you wait and see.
Made of Wood
Now I want to tell you something
about what? I don’t know
how to speak in tongues. I try
to be honest. But the color
blue comes out first. What the hell
ain’t it about? Everything
worshipped—including stuffed monkeys—
leads to silence or ink drawings of stolen crutches.
The Last Daffodil, Or How to Become Famous Inside the Take No Heroes Hotel
The window
seat is the aisle
seat. It’s too damn small. Claustrophobia
can be triggered
at any moment. Am I
the only one
who heard you
expose that moment
a young woman jumps
off
a moving
merry-go-round
to change her life? An island known
for brass rings. But now it’s the back
of a larger jet, not
a bus. And the word
turbulence is a curse. Gravel
roads and potholes
in the sky over
Ohio and Wisconsin. No,
it must be the Great
Lakes. Each
and every one. And rivers
that flow too slowly
or not at all. You belted out
the question:
“Is it Mine?” There was nothing
there to be yours
yet. When there was,
you didn’t want it.
(Did I?) And then
it was gone. Name it. Go
ahead. Name.
It. I
dare you. And
I will not offer
suggestions. And
once named, you can
forget it—me. Yeah,
thought so. Descending
over the Mississippi, a landing
so smooth.
Daffodil
No matter how many transfers
I pluck off
the ground, she will never
kiss me
on the bus
again. Valid
for 2 ½ hours. Time’s
up. Dirt on the magnetic
strip. Invalid
for life. How lame
that I am still limping
after all these years. Again,
I forget
who she is—Daffodil
or some lesser lily
of the field. Face validity
will do. Fingerprints
everywhere. I do know she’s no longer
made of glass.
The Mats at Midway Tonight
I’m going to start
wearing a money
belt to pretend
I’m traveling
in a foreign
country. Wide enough
to hold
a passport
and a spleen
in case mine needs
to be removed.
I would keep it
so I could still vent.
No one will accuse me
of being passive
aggressive. Where am I
going tonight?
Saint Paul. You never know.
Will have to cross
the Mississippi, you know.
Maybe, you don’t.
Daffodil
Ambidextrous from
now on. There will be
awkward days. She’s too
in the groove. Do you
want to help her
realign her pelvis? Take
this broomstick. Start there. Don’t forget
to activate her
brand of narcissism
typically found in a meadow
hemming in woods she knows
only in daydreams.
Is it Mine? Yours? Theirs? (Or, a Text that Raises Questions of Ownership)
Syllables. They tumble from her mouth into his.
They didn’t complete each other’s sentences, they ate them.
She would chew “con,” he “crete.” She “white,” he “washed.”
He would swallow “be,” she would shit “low.”
To fall means climbing—knowing
it could be your last. The rough texture
of their forms curve and complement. He is closing in
on her. Not a walker’s imprint—
a stomper’s. Her high heels cast shadows. Entangled
in one another, covered
in sand under a too bright sun.
A bearded man plays
a harp. Window glass protects viewers
from themselves. Almost
lovers in the shadows, it is time
for us to part. The ocean is out of control.
Syllables smash. I am going
to reinvent you.
This act is not visual. Life will go
out of focus, or
the tree could be dead.
I remember realizing I could swim but not knowing when it happened. Believe
my father taught me. You’ll drag
your wasted body from the water. Flop
onto the dock like a caught fish.
As soon as you can stand, you’ll
jump back in. I remember my cousin Judy
getting me drunk the first time (on Rolling Rock)
when I was 14. And you’ll swim
across channels, swallow salt water,
even seaweed, and your cravings will shift.
I remember almost losing it
for 90 minutes—a steel blue white-capped lurch
up slap down—don’t take your eyes off
the horizon for even a second. Syllables
smash against the white-washed.
I remember puking
on the steps to Saint Patrick’s
Catholic Church in Kokomo
on Easter Sunday when I was 8.
The ocean is everywhere
in her mind. Against the white-washed concrete.
I remember telling my father
I’m one too.
But you’ll keep jumping
into the drink till you go down
or find a squeaky board to use
as a balance beam.
What happens
beyond that bare tree
will become the thing. Syllables smash
against the white-washed concrete floor. A box
unfolding, I get vertigo even before I begin.
In the beginning, there was no lighthouse. Everything was light.
In the beginning, ships sank.
In the beginning, climbing was optional.
I feared the word undertow before one knocked me off balance.
But I hit the barrier between breathing and drowning in a Holiday Inn pool.
Jumped off the State Beach lifeguard stand under fire
works, shouting “The ocean is dying.”
The white-washed concrete floor base. In the beginning,
language rescued us. A keeper was a keeper.
In the beginning, we had to learn the names of each place
before we could forget them. In the beginning,
there was no before. Its beauty—its ruin. Syllables
smash against the white-washed concrete
floor base below. Now all I can hear
is the sound of someone else’s ocean
in a conch shell I found buried
beneath a shack,
destroyed by fire. It was no accident. The day my father died,
I could not recognize my own name.
Figurehead Off the Prow
She could return to the man
who dances with praying
mantises. Or, to the water—colder
on the second day. Or,
another man
she hasn’t spoken to
in over 20 years. She sees him—does he
see her? She imagines
how she might reinvent
his gaze. How he would look
underwater when the ocean
has calmed. Or, what he’d do
if a fox started following him.
Now she doesn’t even know
which man she means.
It’s all a wild ride
that begins in a dinghy
her uncle named after her.
August 27, 2014
A fox follows you
till fear makes you
sprint to lameness. A swim
in the ocean
in your dress awakens
your hidden desire
to be out
of control again. Your hair
may smell of seaweed
and salt mixed
with grief
for your father—some called
Running Fox—now dead
two years. But the air
you breathe
in this moment
brushes the Atlantic Ocean
across all surfaces—your face.