Found Relic, 2002

THE PODIATRIST WAS PRETENDING NOT TO LOOK

when my father stroked to the ground.

No one knows when he fell, 

or where he thought he was. 

Maybe he was in the woods,

dew clinging to a leaf, 

resting against a fallen tree

rot with rain,

he went swimming 

in the theater lights

popping above him like fireworks,

their smokey xeroxes in aerial suspension

drifting like jellyfish toward him,

or he towards the gangled tendrils -

his own appendages failing -

only the mouth gasping for something.

The rest of the theater standing in ovation

but he lay, gasping at the small, flashy pops 

of stage lights like a witness to the final stars of an exiting universe.

“Encore! Once more, another round

for everyone, pull me off of these wet leaves, up

out of the mossy sea and into the air above the November stalks.

Let the gassy tentacles of the lights hold me a moment

above death, above the applause.

There are no hands here but my wife’s.” 

And another old found poem (2011)

ENTROPY

tacos under a small rain, light beers

the air a petrichor mush weeping into the untended spaces in our chests

a woman with a mouth like a carp,

gulps down cigarettes like little white mints

clouds smear into sky around the restaurant

a dark breast pushing behind it all

the edges the smoothed sheen of a spaceship wall

it was going to get awful

for a long time

almost like all this light is a waste

Another Old Poem (2012)

 LIMINAL

there are no poems tonight

pink sky cloud pink nipple pink porch light

so nice to be and not have been

to not have to go

ANOTHER FOUND POEM - 2005

ACCIDENT STATEMENT

I ordered a vegetable burrito with no beans.

She asks, “just the rice?” I say yeah, meaning

a vegetable burrito with everything except beans.

But they kept passing my sad, naked burrito down the line,

with only rice inside.

I had to tell the lady who adds the guacamole

that I wanted a vegetable burrito

so she could add the squash and red peppers - which she did -

and I took it to some empty part of the food court to eat.

It was fine.

However, as I was drinking my soda,

and my intention is not to make you uncomortable,

or get too serious in a poem about a burrito,

but,

it was the last sip of my soda,

you know the bit left between the ice

that you have to slurp up,

well, while I was slurping I remembered my father

playing dueling cowboys with me, at the bus stop,

both of us sticking our thumbs straight up

and our index fingers straight out like guns

and when my bullet landed, through my sites

his hand over his heart

as he went down

and I choked on my soda

like

a sonofabitch

for no reason whatsoever

but some guy,

some dweeb in a golf shirt,

saw me choke,

scowled,

looked away

and had no idea

I had a life before all of this.

skate rat cat

 

 BONK

for Meg

over the faucet gush

i cut 

broccoli

stalks bonk

softly

onto green leaves

skinned

and strewn

in the basin

Two Found Poems

MOUNTAIN AFTER BEER

the sky's particular sync

paused

near the horizon

a mess

all gummed up 

gory peaks 

pink 

entering pink

and like churning taffy

again

into itself

didn’t the cloud seam 

seem not there

an erasure 

gasp

the sky gasp

like a lost tome

and all the doom

there should be

with that

with what

OTTER CREEK 

dry packed snow 

stepped on cracks

like rifle stutters

in the muffle 

creek-smuggled darkness

it’s not that dark

the parking lot is expecting visitors

all that data 

beyond light

is impeccable 

another old one

COMPANY MEN OF POETRY

the editor
inserted
a waterfall
in June
this year
where a sun
should have
been

we go inside
twice now:
first under
a roof,
and then
under the hood
of the heart
to ferment

I have become
drunk
inside myself,
my cheeks
freely
ask the editor:

for so long
every thing
has been
so heavy
and green,
the water
so clear,
where does
it all
come from

another old, old poem

PLUCK

in the post-rain neighborhood gloom
local cats dart
into unseen seams between yards
where space folds onto itself
darting dark to dark on my walk back
from the packie

i remember a dream
from years ago
where all the women
I have ever loved
are falling softly
down onto me like petals,
as if they all
sprung
from one source,

it has become darker since I set out

the streets narrow and widen
without warning they turn violent turns
without yield
almost squirming

i'm lost
this isn't where i live
or what I want
there is no road-map
for a can of worms
but at least
there is the dark

i feel my keys
in my front pocket
across the street
another cat
stiffens
in the dark looking
not at me
but my front door

old doodles

old songs

More oldies

ENTROPY

under a tarp
under
a small
muggy rain
i lean over
tacos
light beer

the air mushed
in petrichor

just past
the restaurant's brick edge
the sheer gray sky
capsulates
me further

i've been in new york
too long
little prayers
for each beer
to get me home

More from the Archives

THE UNCANNY VALLEY OF PROPER HYDRATION

I am working at the kitchen table,
cricket ray-guns at war in the hills,
sticky tick-tick-ticketing in the hot shadows.

I walk to a green, plastic canoe 
under shadow in the ruins of the concrete garage.

Walking towards it, an old roommate's dead car 
sits abandoned, gloomed in web.

Shattered slabs of blacktop driveway
wild with scruffy weeds,
there's a treadless car tire,
and BB shot beer cans.

I'm going to need this canoe to get across the river. 
The bridges have all been blown out.

I must get north.

If I could keep a clean apartment 
in my past life, I can slaughter 
a dog in the post-apocalypse.

SOME BIRDS (from 2011)

I stood in the waves and watched pelicans, or some birds, fly single file, bellies skimming the water. I felt future zits pulse under my skin. My hair was reggae. Too much sun, salt. I was almost 32 before I swam next to a jellyfish with my tongue out, probing. The shore was death. The ocean, death. My feet were standing in death. All week the sky was the color of a gun the color of a thunderstorm sky. What a big throat death has. What small hands. Look at the jaws of death, the rubber teeth. All kinds of death in single file. All kinds of death in a show. Girls in stocking-ed legs. Cocks laid on appetizer plates. Long lines for the bathroom. Beer cans versus sand castles.

It is hard. My friend, I spoke with you and you were not listening in the beautiful way you used to never listen. Your hand drifted up towards your hair in the vanity of the rested. You were never at ease. You were always tired. If it were only ever for show, well, you saw my heart break under open curtains. The show is the show.

ACCIDENTAL

I don't trust 

our bodies

        I don't trust our 

minds

this accidental 

smuggle

after nature 

       tripped

over a stump

I still 

        love you so much

still dribble         a bit

when I pee

from Cross and the Switchblade (1972 Spire/Barbour) 

I don't know where this came from.