(September 22-October 2, 2009)

I

Harpooned hovercraft of mangled
teenage heart hums
a tune, out of tune, crooked-
While the moan of a distant
motorcycle-god screams through
10 o’clock like insect wings.

II

Contemplated “godly-speech” confusion;
-shaken with one part Camel Lights,
one part black coffee,
two parts gravel- sends the delicate
machinery of the cyclist into a
cheese-grater skid, smearing face
and leather across pavement.

III

An awkwardness-
interrupted by starving moths
lost in a fog of
highway construction dust-
turns 315 into yellow
brick redemption.
My sailboat home on a river
of gasoline and the stale
over baked smell of city smog-
sweeps me up in the devastating
simplicity of loving one.
stupidly.

IV

Should haves try to resurrect
the dying, interrrupted by
parking meter checkers.
Time to pay up. Time is lost.

V

Dig deep to pick off
badges of significance.
“I am a queen!” vagrant woman shouts.
The bus leaves without
her- the coach leaves Cinderella
behind.

VI

Garage dreams return when
least expected-
Chain cranks to open panels
the inside lock is stuck again-
Spiders curling into
chemical heaps of extremities;
My stem breath on windows,
Door swings open.
Crowbar brain frothing
at the mouth with prose.
Skinny bow legs leave
the garage, leave tomorrow
hanging on the door.

Sunbath licks my skin like tub water-
I skim the surface of the sky and
watch a distorted horizon through
foggy reading glasses perched
on sunburnt nostrils.
Salt caked on milky white legs
scrapes off in sheets; the
gulls laugh at my awkwardness.

Usually careful not to overcook,
I do most of my writing behind
a window, watching from a
cushioned hiding place-
but usually the canvas before
me is still unmarked – whitewash
waiting desperately for imagination
in paint.

Today, cobalt is infused
in myrtle scented air. Magenta kisses
my cheeks and green reaches out
to embrace each traveler with
amnestic bliss.

Dreaming is reserved for daylight
and stars, like lonely nomads, wander
about the herds of cotton cloud life.

He watched the bees fly-
one after the other-
down the long slender neck
of a half empty Budweiser bottle.
They circled
around the top, as though
determining whether or not
the source of the warm, sour
aroma was worth their attention.
Upon deciding
the bottle was harmless
and worthy of investigation
they effortlessly
dropped down inside,
fell into the musty nectar below,
and drowned.

The traveler, the inspiration rambles
like geese in the window-
Words from a can of saxophone
echoes of a past age-
After the heads had flown
elephants devour me-
Despite what anyone would think,
on his knees, one more
alive needful noise-
Looking for anywhere to stop
mysteries abound in the wastes-
Breakfast in a house we bought with stones
before I have time to change my mind
says “Goodbye Stranger” & bebops on-
Secrets creep through the mind of the
orbiting space where I am-
I dread stepping into the muddy pool of his past.

I am sitting and listening,
soaking in
a rainfall of language.

Lips form waves
of syllables-
splashing against my cheeks,
trickling into my ears.

On the beach,
the taste of sweat
hangs in the diesel fuel smog,
clings to my lungs.

Back home,
the roar of rubber on pavement,
faces crossing the street
ready for class to begin.

In the streets of Delhi,
explosive celebration
reaches my chest, heavy sound
pressing inward.

In the fields,
looking at ghost children,
asking their names,
wanting to chase them.

In the subway,
The smell of live electricity
thriving, the wet angry
scent of trains.

Sitting and listening,
soaking in
the sand, the asphalt, the gunpowder-
living in the cornstalks, the grease.
Soaking in a rainfall
of all the things they’ve seen.

I am sitting and listening-

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