On the Remake

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“Then nothing will remain of the iron age
And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem
Stuck in the world’s thought, splinters of glass
In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the mountain . . .”
—Robinson Jeffers, from “Summer Holiday” 

I can find the trash
chute without falling
under its spell.  Won’t be abducted 

by shattered glass thoughts
desperate to become sand
again. I will recycle myself.  Will 

find another man
to feed me—am seeking
fresh vegetables, grilled fish, and laughter 

sweet as peaches
we’ll dare to eat.

Avowal

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Do I dare—I do not—
to buy a snuff
bottle. Hand-painted,
it comes in a small gold thread
embroidered box
with a latch. If a peach 

adorned its glass shell, would I
then? Afraid to ask

questions, I let wondering build
a safety berm
around my modern moat.
What swims through
my muck and murdered
words would not bear 

any rings. They’re everywhere—
on fingers, hanging 

from ears, wrapped around
planets, even this curved channel
I’ve dug to keep nobody
out. I don’t burn
rose oil, it’s the water
I want to sniff. 

It’s this desire
I need to contain.

It Turns On

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a dime on the coffee bar tile
floor to pick up, orange
traffic cones inverted
in the sidewalk to ponder. It’s a sign 

not to fall 

into warning funnels before predictions
of tornado sirens blare over the radio. The handsome
shop keeper who owns that caché tells me
his beautiful dog sleeps 

behind the snuff 

bottle case. I notice him the way I notice him
so many evenings passing each other by. I go
unnoticed. Lightning inspires
a gray afternoon sky. These things—take 

note. A tornado 

warning gets canceled—
but what’s that sound?

Medium High

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“Poetry doesn’t know:
The air conditioner
Not in use in winter
Is like my hopes—
Half in, half out.”
—Jack Kerouac, from “Richmond Hill Blues” (Book of Blues) 

I have no air
conditioner. No
dishwasher. I have no washing
machine. I am half 

in, half out—don’t
take pity on me
because I don’t cook
down suburban roads 

in an SUV. I want no mercy
meals from anyone—
not even Kerouac.  He’s
dead. I am sitting in 

my own lap
topped to wait
for the right moment
to cast a warm glow.

Question of Property

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“I almost called these poems
Pickpocket Blues
because they are the repetition
                              by memory
                      of earlier poems
                        stolen from me
b y    t w e l v e    t h i e v e s.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 2nd Chorus of “Orizaba 210 Blues” (Book of Blues) 

She doubts her bones
will be put on display.  Sees 

how she is blessed.  To be a thief
in this time is what’s left. If he channels you 

to music, how will she tune in, listen,
take away what she can 

to call her own? If possession
is nine tenths, she has her doubts 

about the other tenth—does believe
it has something to do with the shape 

of the moon and whether she bothers
to look for it each night. Did she steal 

that one too?

Letter in a Mirror

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“Tainted Love” won’t hit you
the way it did in 1982 when you came late
to Studio 54. Always arriving early, 

you miss being
the impact.  Pregnant
new wave singers, punk 

ones already overdosed, your phobia
keeps you clean. You are one
of the dirt eaters.  We can tell 

by the lines on your finger
nails, by the look you give
trees. Your envy is not pretty— 

it’s what you wear
when nothing else seems to fit. The seam
is endless 

around your assumptions.
Your shoe size is not
what you or I think. You would be taller 

if you could give up
the memory of those songs—
the ones that didn’t deliver 

the truth, it turns out. And it is
this—Noguchi is dead. Your soul mate
isn’t yet born. Take a deep breath, 

my dear woman, move on.

Living Tower

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Even if it was an option, it’s not 

an option 

to date your guardian angel,
even an accidental one.  You may believe 

you’ve exhausted them all, been pushed
to the edge of the jetty—rocks everywhere 

sounding off a raucous
laugh.  But the one who guides you ashore 

cannot be the one to take you 

home 

to love you in a half lit, half
darkened solar. This is more 

than semantics.  This is
a rule bronzed and embedded 

in each Noguchi sculpture
you hope to see and know you’ll want 

to touch.

Letter to Another World

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Emily Dickinson’s soul mate rides
a bicycle down my street. I can tell
it’s him by the way he compresses
his shoulders between parked
and moving cars. Handsome and nimble,
Emily, constant and quick.

You, Conduit

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To pretend to be
an atheist and still believe
in guardian angels is 

this house
where I live with blinds
closed tight. To profess to live 

in solitude by choice
while scars of loneliness tattoo
my legs, my soul, is 

to give loners
a bad name, is to let myself
down root 

cellar stairs into a leaky chamber
where only humans go.

Joseph

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I understand how it is
to become mesmerized
by a sea 

siren. I’ve had my own
Ondine. I’ve wanted
to destroy immortality with my mouth 

and hands. Had my own Rose
too—have followed the unraveling
of all tapestry 

in motion. It’s a disturbed drive
to erase all plot
to revel in what remains—a face 

framed just for me.