Tone deaf, color
blind to the hues
of a man’s gestures. Bored,
shy, turned
on, off—who can
tell? Gossip dug out
of a dumpster, laid
in the mid-summer grass
to dry out, to cure well
enough for a taste. I don’t eat
meat. That’s no excuse.
I’m human. I share
secrets—only my own.
Someone drove a Nash
rambler into my heart.
See these burn scars. I’m knitting them
into poems fast
as I can. Fear is
a cross-stitch I’m
still learning how to work
into a pattern. Perfection
is for the gods.
“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.
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.
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?
“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.
“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?
“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.
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.
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.
