Don Gillette
The Face In The Mirror Is Not Mine
Nouvelle Press 1990
Copyright © 1988, 1989, 1990 by Donald W. Gillette
All rights reserved. Printed in the
Contents
Mister Jasper’s Morning Vigil • As The River Rises • Hiatus in
Biloxi • Overland Bridge • Bloom Deadeye Baby • Empty Nights • Fugue in A#
Minor • Front Porches on the Lakeshore • Proofreading • Du Vieux Carré • A
Truck Stop at Night With e.e. cummings • Breakfast with Emily Dickinson Next
Morning • 6:20 • Jamaican Beaches • The Man in the Chair • Melinda, Dark Hair •
Monkey Head Fallout • Beacon Falls • The West Wood’s Woman • The Dresses You
Wear • Gloria • Second Avenue • Breakdown Child • Severe Thunderstorm Warning
In Effect • Forced Social Interaction in Acrylic • Double Images • Amanda,
Captured Without Her Hat • Not Even The Rain • Road Song • Standing on a
Hillside in Early Autumn • The City Behind the Mirror • Twilight, No Dreams •
Faces • 50K Babies, Crazy as Rats • Tortured Minds Sleep Poorly • Succubus •
Memories Near Millville • The King Is Dead. Long Live The King • Window View •
Wasted in the Night • Situation Warp • The Gatherer Dances • Taps • In The Land
of the Koonga Girls • A Man With an Ax Thinking of Swimming • Her Dark Eyes •
Sideshow • Scanners • Moving Seven Eyes • The Peach Picker • Laundromat •
Artifical Life with Electric Light • Autumn • Coronado East • Limbo • Posse
From River Rock Canyon • The Liquid Man Comes Home From Salem, Virginia • Remembrance
of Things Past • Evening Trips to Lower Broad • Prom Queens, Beauty
Contestants, Baton Twirlers • Darkshine • Christians • Opportunity for a
Deathly Hot Summer • Provincetown and Others • The Attempt to Return an
Inanimate Object • Jenny • Headset Cassette • The Road to Little Rock • Before
This One • Household • Young Lover • Epitaph
MISTER JASPER’S MORNING VIGIL
Early
morning darkness
Casts
the windows reverse.
I
cannot see out.
Yesterday’s
memories scratch
At
the ceiling
Imprinting
their presence.
The face in the mirror is not mine.
The face is not mine.
It is the face for faces from the day
And left by itself, given its own way,
It may decide to cry.
Dawn
music hides in the distance
Away
from the wisps of fog
Hiding
in the grass, dancing with the lawn furniture.
Beneath the dew the earth lies silent.
It waits with the intent
Of a tired, little kitten
Just opening its eyes.
I see no beginning.
No place for insanity
Or the meaning of vanity;
No purpose at work
I feel no hand on my hand
And I feel I cannot stand
The touch of the nothing
On my forehead.
I can hear birds singing
From hidden nests in the sky.
Their songs are the frightened kind;
They feel they will die:
The
sun will not rise today,
The
sun is dead.
I
can feel the chill of perpetual twilight;
I
must return to bed
And
pull the blanket over my head
To
hide from the darkness.
It
is too late.
Night-dark
wedded daylight
And
faces past reached out pale, white arms.
It
is the morning;
I
have not gone.
AS THE RIVER RISES
When
there is rain the river
Rises. A soft
Rain rises it softly
Like
the look of your legs
As they reach
Gentle into the Sunday
morning sun,
A new love growing known;
Silence that speaks
Without sounds
Surrounds
the still air
For a moment.
nothing
focuses
but the light drowning
in
dust specks whirling in disturbed
air
or
The sounds clicking time
by on an old digital clock
Radio
Forgotten
from set.
Memories
flare of
things
gone wrong
or
leave, at best, ignored
until
tomorrow.
HIATUS IN
Stark-faced
dancers,
Loud rock and roll,
A braying cocktail bar girl winces
At
the thudding crack of billiard balls. Round
Drink ringed tables,
Beer smelling carpet.
Sitting far from the men's room,
The smell of stale, soaked walls
And floors is scented over.
Legs hurt from crossing,
Neck stiff from shaking no
To table dancers, trips out back.
I
can see the needle tracks
On the blond Indian princess...
Here are chance encounters in dimly-lit rooms
Nothing florescent or glaring through
Smoke clouded air conditioned.
Some car horns bark from outside
Muffled by cheap rug walls and
Sunlit streets and sidewalks.
Middle of the day from a night that lasts.
In
the back they molt together,
Thinking of high tides and weather.
The
princess looks stoned.
I wonder how long she'll live--
Couldn't be eighteen--
She stumbles in her dance and
When she leaves the stage
She does not walk the tables
But exits to the dressing room,
Perhaps to rest,
Perhaps to fix,
Replaced by a
Cowgirl,
White cowboy boots clicking
Picking colored spotlights
On her sequins.
I am amazed at the lack of light.
The dim is not dark, the dim is not clear,
The cowgirl lets her white hat fall
Gently to her back, held about her neck
By red string and a blue button.
Jill is her name,
She will not tell the rest.
The small cross tattoo speaks ownership;
I cannot see her on a Harley,
I do not buy her a drink.
She smiles and visits others.
In
the back they molt together
Thinking of high tides and weather.
I
need silence to remember;
Music hurts, video disturbs.
I need silence hard to come by
And catch a throw-away slogan...
A bit like a prisoner
Awaiting the turnkey.
A bit of dinner
To lay this body down.
Next,
a society girl,
Fresh from coming out
In her red evening gown,
Shoes to match.
She walks the stage like
A pearl stringed model
Shedding first one glove,
Then the other.
When she unbuttons her side,
The slashes show childskin.
There is no note of age
On her arms
Where the white straps hold her gently.
I do not buy her a drink.
Up
next is a chick,
Leather mini, thigh-high boots,
Long, black hair shining straight
From a time not too far.
She sways her blue beads
To Woodstock strains
But I look away,
Her sister's memory
Much too close.
Down
the street in deathly heat,
The night pours on forever.
From porno store to sloppy whore,
Exhaust fumes smell of never.
Motel signs and cocaine lines,
Fading, growing drum beat,
Tourist traps selling maps,
My God, they are so clever.
And
I have stayed too long in
Stayed too long on the Gulf, sick and sweet,
I have slept all day in sand burning heat
And wasted a night alone in this bar.
My plain motel is much too far
For walking at this hour
And so I wait for
To chime from
I wandered through the road hazards
And
waited for a sign
Before
the proclamation
Of
a simpler recreation
And
an easier way.
It was easier then.
Easier to walk and easier to fly
And easier in a hundred ways
Than now, in present days.
I crept along the silent streams
And
listened to the lives
Before
the occupation
And
the hideous destination
Which
became the dark.
And some never wonder
And some never fall.
They flee into spaces
And far away places.
I fear she will die before arriving
On
rickety
And
the lake that it spanned
Now
displaced by land
And
dry, swaying sage grass.
And die without knowing
The opposite side
Or the feeling soon after
The sound of the laughter.
BLOOM DEADEYE BABY
The
bloom deadeye baby left
When
she left
Was
circular on the highway
And
it smoked
Like
nothing else around.
And
off in the distance,
Coupling
with orange,
Deadeye
baby left a sign
On
the horizon
And
the signal said enough
And
it shrieked
Like
nothing else in town.
EMPTY NIGHTS
Street
lamps cast Van Gogh visions
Around
themselves
Shining
down on vacant streets.
On
the close ones
You
can see the poles.
In
the distance
Starry
nights waver
Interrupted
by the red when cars put on their brakes.
Occasionally,
a wire hangs between them
And
its starkness
Calls
a name loudly
To
the puddles on the sides of streets.
FUGUE IN A# MINOR
I
A#
Minor.
Conjure
me a sorrowful tine,
Conjure
me sadness.
The
Conjure Woman stands alone:
She wears a black dress
Slit to the thigh
And conjures me a sorrowful tine
Which bears my name;
The name I was born with,
(She has known it since birth)
The name of a singer
Born into her land.
A#
Minor.
Spin
me a sad song,
Spin
me to another land.
The
Weaver Woman holds back in the clearing;
She waves to me with a tired, old
hand
And spins a flaxen bolt,
Ever so calmly,
Which bears my name;
The name I was born with,
(She has cursed it since birth)
The name of a minstrel
Tossed into her lake.
II
A#
Minor.
The
skies fill with the notes they require.
They
modulate and bend,
apart they feel fine,
Together
they drain a misery
Onto
other windows
Seeing what they can see.
Smiling
faces,
Alone
and together,
Apart
and smiling, shaking hands.
The
notes sail by.
Tomorrows
and tomorrows and tomorrows piled high;
And
laughs and cries and “how do you do’s.”
And
teachers chuckling beneath their breath
At
the joke they’ve pulled
On the children.
They’ve
come to show them secrets
Misery
loves company…Billy loves Lucy…
And
Lucy loves a hot dog in the morning in the park,
And
the feeling she gets from being left in the dark
By
her friends
After an evening at the theater.
III
Good times in the shadows
the last time reached
for you.
FRONT PORCHES ON THE LAKESHORE
Dark-skinned, White
blond,
Yellow bikini, Black
polka dots,
Lounging on Front
Porch Steps,
Cold Drink
Held Near
by Her
Naked Legs.
PROOFREADING
Walking
into a dark room
At
No light
To
light
The walls
And the wet cold
Of a fresh
Can of beer
Presses
into
My palm,
Guiding the
Way past
Obstacles strewn
On
the
Floor.
The
sound
Comes from a
Ceiling fan
Spinning like
A gyroscope
Stirring the
Memories within
The twenty
Pound bond
Littered in
No order and
Eight
and a half
Long grain
Proof copies
Hit the floor
With the breeze
Lying violently,
Making sounds
Like bicycle
Wheel with
Clothespinned playing
Cards from thirty
Years ago.
DU VIEUX CARRE
§
Streets
smell of stale
In the morning, humid
With the dampness of unseen fog.
Phantoms of night
Gone to their homes to
Sleep and prepare again.
Canal is dormant and Rampart
Weeps long and low.
The General, sideways to the river,
Ears closed to a lone
Saxophone crying the blues,
Keeps watch over cobblestones and nothing;
Sightless eyes stare out.
His prancing mount, frozen in battle,
Front hooves caught motionless and solid,
Holds its brass head high and proud,
Carries a man.
The
clink and chatter of glass rolls lonely
In the Quarter. Few cars creep
Past dreaming joints, their doors barred
For clean up.
A hint of coffee clouds mingle with the past
Perking porcelain puffs onto Royal
While the tax man tracks down
Pimps and chocolate whores
Hiding quietly in rooms behind multi-colored doorways.
There
is a magic here.
Closed up tight it could be anywhere.
Strobe lighted spectres of misery
And the phantom Queen Marie
Strike chords in settling sea air.
Spewing water and whirling broom.
There
is no land like this.
It is a dreamscape lost,
A battlefield grown over,
Echoing the spirits of soldiers,
Wounded and dying,
On a hardball maze.
It is a coliseum;
Lions and bears hide behind
Paint painted paint doors
Windowless and locked.
There are no ladies waiting.
The
still is punctuated by an
Occasional compressor realizing the heat.
There
are no dead today.
Still the bones decay
In Number One, crypts tilting,
Corrupted by the sinking
Of reclaimed bayou
Paced apart by an ancient surveyor,
Marked with fading arrows buried shaft down.
And in Number One at One, an oven crypt,
A startled lithograph wrapped in plastic
Stares back above a water glass and floating crucifix.
At Three, Queen Marie is honored.
Plastic beads, squirrel's tail,
Two bricks wrapped in foil,
Her tomb is marked with brick etched crosses,
The drawing tools left over for the next convert.
And between the bricks, a white Fender Medium peeks out
With logo up.
I
stooped to get it
And thought twice.
Dropped it face down
And will never forget.
On
top of the tomb, sea birds fight over
A chicken bone and tufts of fur
Decorated with plastic flowers and red ribbons.
Daring the pushers,
Black women in white dresses
Form a procession for the dead.
They walk slowly, in step with a heartbeat
For there are no dead today.
This is a holy place.
Uptown,
the trolley clacks past,
First trip of the day,
Seats empty and lonely while
Traffic begins from a place far away
Bringing barkers and strippers,
Bartenders and vendors,
Reptilian tango dancers.
They drift in like a lone ship's horn
Across the
Wrapping their lives with the alleys.
Colors
move in the French Market.
Greens and reds
And cheap sunglasses,
Yellows and whites
And turquoise necklaces,
Shining trinkets.
Sounds of shuffling
Invade the walkstones
Of Jackson Square.
Oyster shuckers don steel mesh gloves
To the rhythm of paddle wheels churning.
There
are no dead today.
Day
§
Behind
a China doll,
All the world is marching;
Marching, looking, clasping, grasping,
Aware and marching, almost silent,
Into streets cracked and broken.
The barricades are down.
Cross road traffic struggles through.
Breakfast waitresses, smiles tattooed,
Clatter platters, knifes, forks, and spoons
For the faces from a decade past.
They look this way and that
Out the windows of time machines,
Telescopic, ball-gazing eyes
Floating in a puddle of wasted life,
Too old now or used up for the circuit.
Where do they come from, these workers of the day?
There
will be rain today.
I can feel it, smell it, off the Gulf;
It will not stop.
And
the tourists,
Young kids in tow, walk the Quarter
Historically, before the sun sets;
Before the transformation.
They look in the cathedral
Or ride the river boats.
The paddle wheel sloshes the
Children to sleep; their dreams are of
Nothing and sometimes they fly.
Father and mother
Smile at each other.
They speak in hushed tones
Drinking Pina Coladas
On muddy brown water
Passing warehouses, half-listening
To Cajuns calling.
The
air rises, tepid on the riverbank.
The breeze is hot,
No one looks well.
Walking hangovers gradually clear
With a lessening grimace from
Trolley bells clanging.
Inside, in hotel rooms,
The dreamers take showers.
On the darkside, the underside,
A woman kicks back natty covers,
Pads to the bathroom in dirty bare feet,
Pauses to look in the mirror
And remembers against it.
She turns on the water and rinses the night,
Incense burns her nostrils, hurts her eyes.
Her smock on the chair back
Is stained with bold glares.
She hails from out west where the buffalo roam.
The clubs and the night life, so different from home,
Have borrowed her soul.
The sun is descending.
The hookers are out
To practice pretending.
Night
§
Lanterns
flickering, bulbs glow harsh.
The Shriners in town wear ridiculous fezzes.
Most brought their wives and
Most are old, creeping around the Quarter,
Being helped from the curbs.
You can tell who they are; they keep to the sidewalks
And to Bourbon and bourbon and water.
Jazz filters out Preservation Hall,
Mixes with rock and roll from
Topless Bottomless and drowns.
The painted ladies roam Bienville and Conti,
Away from the crowds and men with their women.
You can hear them in silence;
A gris gris in a purse.
A
black boy taps; his hat on the black boy top and
I can see him from a balcony above the street.
He spies me watching and points to his change.
I pitch him four quarters.
He scrabbles like a crab,
Bows low and forgets me.
On
Canal, toward Rampart, a drunk asks a question.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and I draw back a fist
Because it is time to leave.
The
moon is full on
And the shrimp boats with their lights on are working.
It takes forever to travel from
Forever to cry for the dead.
A TRUCK STOP AT NIGHT WITH E. E. CUMMINGS
The
bleached blond waitress takes our order
And
twitches her big ass as she walks away.
I
got a burger, he got some eggs
And
the truck drivers stared at us as we
Stared
out the window.
I
could see his reflection in the glass
Beaming
back from the darkness, a frown
on his face, hair uncombed for days.
A
C.B. radio crackled from the kitchen
and he looked puzzled.
“It’s
the radio,” I said, staring out.
“
We
ate our food and left a tip,
walked out into the darkness
of the parking lot.
BREAKFAST
WITH EMILY DICKINSON NEXT MORNING
She
stared at her plate
As
we heard a fly buzz.
I
asked what was wrong,
And
she lifted her head.
“I
Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died,” she said.
She
sipped scalding coffee,
Put
a napkin in her lap.
I
asked how she felt,
And
she lifted her head.
“After
Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes,” she said.
We
went to the bedroom
To
clean up our mess.
I
asked her to help,
And
she lifted her head.
“Ample
Make This Bed,” she said.
“Damn
the bed,” I said instead.
“I’m
really quite happy you’re dead.”
Sounds
from the stillness
Call from outside.
They
peek around corners,
Come in with the tide
Washing
up at this time.
Barely
whispering, afraid to be heard,
Interrupted by crickets,
Not
speaking a word,
They gather on the shore
For
a final assault.
Surrounded
by evening,
Sounds disappear.
They
fade into fear.
There are no sounds here.
JAMAICAN BEACHES
Jamaican
girls lie on the beaches;
They
dream of mountains and far away reaches
On
their backs on the blistering sands.
Away from the chill
Of the mad, biting winds
They play volleyball.
Not
until their reflection
Can
break the connection
Will
they go to their homes
To drink Cuba Librés
And lounge in the tub,
Watching bubbles burst around them.
On the highways they drive American cars
But
find their way to Jamaican bars.
The
ocean comes closer in November;
Makes
Jamaican girls remember
The
feeling of sand on their backs
And the touch of their lovers,
Alone in the night,
Just beginning to know.
The
oceans are quiet now,
They’ve
all gone away.
They
could stand it no longer.
The
seas won’t allow,
The
girls cannot stay,
The
current grows stronger.
I
sit in my room,
I
pray to the gods.
Tomorrow brings Jamaican girls back
For a walk on the beach.
Tomorrow brings Jamaican girls back.
Tomorrow they will be gone again
To their white cottages.
Tomorrow they will be gone again.
Shell
shocked, lying cold and damp,
There
is no one to light the lamp
And recover the white sands.
Dark-haired
beauties walking by;
None
have ever caught my eye
For more than an evening.
On
the highways they drive American cars
But find their way to Jamaican bars.
THE MAN IN THE CHAIR
The
man in the chair watches peacefully
While the women walk past,
Heads in the sky,
No
time for foolishness.
He
sells his pot holders
And
bright, yellow yardsticks
To
the wives of the sailors,
Husbands
at sea.
He
whistles to himself of days gone by
And watches his reflection
In the restaurant window
Unable
to remember what he looked like
As
a young man.
MELINDA, DARK HAIR
Light
leaves no sign on her hands;
The
sleep will not cease.
Scattered
pages from an incomplete novel
Blow
across the floor
And
dance with the dust balls
From
under the dresser.
Clawed
feet intercede.
An
empty pack of Salems
Lies
crumpled on the nightstand.
From
burning aloud.
Dark
clouds gather.
The
father waits in the courtyard
Smelling
of yesterday.
The
weather is changing,
Lives
rearranging,
From
the glimpses of light
Denying
her hands.
MONKEY HEAD FALLOUT
Speak
to me of jungles
Thick, green, smelling pools
Floating little lazy lily pads,
One behind the other
Where dark trees make love
Monkeys act like fools
To men who mirror savages
Ghosts of ancient ghouls
Similarity to both seeing
Cannot see them either.
Here is a man.
Here a man answers animal cries
With a glance and a shake.
Here is a man with no thought in his
head.
It is the scent,
The smell of nothing.
Here are the broken bones;
The sprained, twisted limbs
Of tomorrow.
Here a beast ponders, paws
At the vacancy,
Makes animal noises.
Talismans,
magic root, bark stained faces,
All search for silence between empty spaces,
Wait patiently, heads cocked, for whatever he says.
Here
a man whispers low, afraid to be heard.
Speaktomeofjunglesthickgreensmellingpoolsfloatinglittle
lazylilypadsonebehindtheotherwheredarktreesmakelovem
onkeysactlikefoolstomenwhomirrorsavageryghostsofanci
entghoulssimilaritytobothseeingcannotseethemeitherherei
samanhereamananswersanimalcrieswithaglanceandashake
hereisamanwithnothoughtinhisheadjustlikemeandtherestof
youitisthescentthesmellofnothingherearethebrokenbonest
hesprainedtwistedlimbsoftomorrowhereabeastponderspaw
satthevacancymakesanimalnoisestalismansmagicrootbarks
tainedfacesallsearchforsilencebetweenemptyspaceswaitp
atientlyheadscockedforwhateverhesaysanditwontbemuchi
tneverisbelievemehereaman
whisperslowafraidtobeheard.
The
leather wears slow on the sides
Of my boat shoes...ten years old
And I wear them each day.
Unk had a pair as long as I knew him.
Seldom worn on a boat,
They looked just like mine.
The overstuffed green chair
With doilies for the spots
Was were he sat and watched wrestling
And Lawrence Welk;
Me with my comic books,
One per haircut,
In his lap, on occasion,
More likely the floor.
Aunt
Dort, the same dresses
Year after year,
Boiled chicken on Saturday
And mashed potatoes
With a stainless steel contraption.
A pie or two,
Lemon meringue,
Sat cooling on the windowsill
While Unk pulled weeds and snuck a smoke.
Sometimes I'd help him,
This giant in a Pendleton shirt,
Weed basket close by,
Digging slowly into the earth.
We would talk about nothing
And what I had learned.
THE WEST WOOD’S WOMAN
†I
know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room†
The
voice touches.
It
slides from inside and hides in the covers
With
distant white lovers
and
sees all the sights.
And
it knows.
It
knows what remains
And
it knows where I go.
And
it knows all the pains
And
ignores its own.
The
warmth touches.
It
slides from inside and darts around corners,
Knows
all of the relatives and all of the mourners
And
remembers.
It
remembers days
And
it knows its desires
As
I slowly go mad.
I
go mad.
But
the days are longer
And
the days grow old;
Still
the days remain,
They
complain of the cold
To
the lady in white;
The
lady in pain.
I go mad,
I go mad.
I keep the ushers and the waiters
sad.
I wear my shirts
unopposingly blue,
I
make my choice of ties bland, too.
And if I
wear a common shoe
I keep the colors two by two…
I never wear them to the zoo.
And
keep my thoughts all too absurd,
So
as not to distress her,
So
as not to disturb
The
lady in white.
For
I have known her already,
Known
her style,
Have
known her actions all the while.
I
have touched her body, mind, and soul
And
relaxed my touch
To
let her go.
THE DRESSES YOU WEAR
The
gentlemen all love you;
You
make them stand
And
bow.
Tell
an old story, give us a thrill,
As
you walk past the viewing room viewing the gloom,
Casting
quick glances, unaware of the chill,
Giving
dead men life and forestalling doom
From
entering exits through the back room.
That
one must be of satin.
It
swishes about your legs
Red
the color red.
But
the dresses you have sleep in your bedroom.
I
see them on Monday, I see them on Thursday…
They
hang on my bedpost, as inside a tomb.
Their
hems touch the floor in a peculiar way
Like
a new love growing old.
GLORIA
Roman
soldiers walked past the weeping women
And
laughed in their faces.
Gloria.
They
swept their robes in front of them
And
snickered out loud.
Gloria.
Gloria.
Gloria
in excelsis Deo.
Glory
to God in the highest.
Praise
be the soldiers,
Heaven’s
best bet.
SECOND AVENUE
Yellow
moon off top of tree,
None have seen the things I see
Arriving home from office or
Leaving for day
Not leaving for good
Although I should
Pass it on
With a couple of aspirin for
My head today
Pounds like a
big bass
drum...
BOOM! Banging BOOM! Beating BOOM!
Playing out a
heavy metal
Beat without guitar
To back it
Up and down no bass string to
Sing a melody in hard time.
Birds
land on cabled tier,
None have
heard the things I hear
Pulling
in the drive
A formaldehyde rubdown for
My body
Today aches like a
broken
string...
BREAKDOWN CHILD
Often
we wonder,
the use is for using for breathing
for dying for driving open roofed
on
a warm spring night for
sending the car off
the
edge of a bridge
into chilled, darkly
waters
calling,
To be someplace else.
Often we ask,
we bother for living for asking for gathering
for singing off key to a radio
song
for slitting
our
throats from the day before
when we asked much too much and
too often
belonging
To something or other.
Often we wonder,
aloud to ourselves.
SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING IN EFFECT
Brown water swirling the scent
of danger in darkness for
rocks
and broken refrigerators
or cast
away treadless
Quapaw
Tires stock
gaps around corners in
dreams and ankle
gripped between tree and
swift water with
Quapaw
Guiding the drowned
rats away from my throat
's intermittent
consciousness
pain the
feeling helplessness
God fiberglass
will break with
force thunderstorm water
Quapaw
Duplex canoe
came a crack in the middle
freedom was never so sweet
in
wilderness
damaged
liberation almost destiny
yes, it was this bad until the
water
Quapaw
I sleep no for days and nights
your sleek lines
awakening
me in cold sweat
and
shaking fingers I thought
I
was the dead man living for hell
Quapaw
Rushing, forty miles an hour
rendered you in two I
somersaulted
on the banks and
never thought
of you
crushed down the
creek on the back of
violent flash flood
wakings
And I saw you eleven months later
Quapaw
Washed against a stone bank
your other half a memory
but the scar
still exists
and hurts
when it rains
no one will know
but you and I
or a doctor when asking
Quapaw.
FORCED SOCIAL INTERACTION IN ACRYLIC
Figures
dance under empty staircases,
In
the background, painted furniture.
Shadows
of people in nearer places
Speaking
in broken French to the new neighbor
Who
wears mirrored glasses in the shower
And carries candle holders and a dead flower
In
profile.
Shifting
light patterns fall on pale faces,
Blank
eyes blink back coldly on paper.
Roses
droop, dying in green vases
Filling
the air with dark sickly vapor
While
hiding behind the hostesses arm
And
sadly announcing her lack of charm;
Lack
of style.
DOUBLE IMAGES
There
are double images here.
They
step on toes and then disappear
Into
closets, hiding in the dark.
They
come in through the duct work
And
on Sundays, they lurk in the park.
There are double images here.
They know my real name
And I know theirs.
There
are double images here.
I
hold in the hatred, I hold in the fear
That
they will awaken in despair.
In
the specks on the windowpanes,
In
the mugs with their coffee stains—
There
are double images there.
AMANDA, CAPTURED WITHOUT HER HAT
She
wears a blouse of silk and lace
And no one here can see her face.
Left alone, westward bound,
No one here can hear a sound.
No one here can speak a word,
No words here can yet be heard.
Some are lost and some are found,
No one here can hear a sound.
Eyeless faces drift about here,
Mindless heads are very near here.
Thoughtless bodies try to get there;
Horror comes and says a strange prayer.
She
stands alone, hand on the door,
And waits for her
lover
Returning from war.
NOT EVEN THE RAIN
How
delicious
Are
your legs
On
a hot summer day
When
you finish
In
your flower garden,
Take
a glass of water,
Drink
some,
And
pour the rest
Over
your body
Washing
away the
Salty
dew.
The
droplets splash
Indiscriminately
on the planks
And
talk to each other
Of
the taste
And
the memory
Flowing
away.
ROAD SONG
Brown
babies,
Lying in the sun,
Drinking rum and Coke from plastic cups,
Licking their lips
And oiling their shoulders,
Shading their eyes,
Hiding from lies,
And
telling short stories;
Diving
occasionally into the ocean.
Bronze ladies,
Strolling the beach,
Looking out at islands
and surf,
Traveling over deserts
And crying at their
faces,
The evidence of places
And the days they tried to please
Their lovers long gone.
Singing girls,
Laughing at the sunsets,
Running to pavilions and
parking lots,
Tossing their hair,
Winking at their sisters
And nursing the blisters
They got lying in the
sand
Learning to grow older.
STANDING ON A
(For Robert Frost)
The
land outside I find is bare,
No
tree to stop the sun's bright glare,
The
crackling leaves break underfoot
And
nothing moves nor does it dare.
I
see no souls in the forest west.
I
cannot stop to drink or rest.
There is no need for walking now.
There
is no time to start a quest.
The
air is heavy, damp, and thick.
I
start to move, but not too quick.
Away
from here the world is sick.
Away
from here the world is sick.
CITY BEHIND THE MIRROR
I
recall an old medicine cabinet
With
a slot for used razor blades
Machined
neatly in its back.
The
blades fell into wall space
Between
rooms where nothing lives.
The
house with the cabinet was old
Fifteen
years ago but
I
switched to an old razor,
Put
in three years worth of blades
To
make my mark on history
And
mingle my life with the past
Blades
sleeping next to each other
Closer
than ashes.
TWILIGHT, NO DREAMS
Eyes
closed and mocking
Sleep
under wool blankets
Drawn
up high.
No
phantom nightmares living under
Pressures
drawn from drifting curtains.
Dim
light, twilight
Lasering
between windowpanes
Falling
short of target
Nightstands.
Underneath,
barely breathing,
Day
dies by.
FACES
As
a child, I saw faces in stone,
In
clouds, in tree bark, in
stars at night.
The
faces became people in stone,
In
clouds, in department store windows, in
disguises at night.
At
night, the spring moon casts
Light
on the chessboard. The faces
in the window
Sometimes
cry or howl or laugh
Or
wink when a tree branch
waves with the wind.
And
I see this when I awaken
At
by something or other
That
leaves just as suddenly
As
I remember it coming
like the faces in stone,
In
clouds, in tree bark,
In
department store windows, in disguises at night,
In
stars.
50K BABIES, CRAZY AS RATS
We
are the hard;
this is what we do:
Drink
chablis with remorse,
go to the golf course,
and breathe in the bullshit.
We
are the smart;
this is what we do:
Drive
around in our cars,
stare up at the stars,
and
write down our lives in letters.
We
are the great;
this is what we do:
Take
vacations in
very rarely dance,
and dine with the Governor.
We
are the sick;
this is what we do:
Hang
out around our pools,
give cash to our schools,
and sing to ourselves.
We
are the angry;
this is what we do:
Curse
all of our furies,
some of our worries,
and most of the world.
We
are the good;
this is what we do:
Go
to church on Sunday,
the bank on payday,
and never look back.
We
are the dead;
this is what we do:
TORTURED MINDS SLEEP POORLY
Deadnight
sounds of nothing.
An
occasional truck leaves diesel windings
To
drift over dark air
And even they fade quickly.
Daytime's dogs lie dead.
Overhead,
no image stops a night life moon
Glaring dimly on the ground
Through slow clouds.
Random
houses break the dark.
Their
porchlights halo in the distance
For
no significant reason,
Seen by no one.
Outside,
the wind is hiding.
It
waits behind bushes for light and sound
And
dew-draped landscapes,
Sleeping calmly.
SUCCUBUS
She
comes softly in the night
After
dying breaths in pale, dim light,
Offers
her presents to a waiting young stranger.
Unaware
of the anguish, unafraid of the danger
He
sees only the woman in white.
She waits in the shadows for the right time.
Plans out her words, sure they will rhyme;
A simple song chanting, no love at all,
She comes to his bed, convinced he will fall.
She
quietly leaves as she enters
And
still in his dreams he remembers,
And
when he awakens and throws back the cover,
And
searches in vain for his phantom lover,
He
cries for the touch of her fingers.
MEMORIES FROM
The
hill was tall,
taller than
anything
And to make it to Bennie's
you had to walk
To the top,
And it just kept
coming.
The last time I walked it
Was nothing--
couple of hundred yards
--And the houses had shrunk.
And
the old smell was gone
From the
That used to foam
Like peroxide on a cut.
THE KING IS DEAD.
LONG LIVE THE KING
There
is no ruler; no rules.
This
is the law.
Servants
scurry about
Using
table scraps as stepping stones,
Scarps
strewn across open rooms
In
no apparent pattern
With
no apparent rhyme.
Servants
search for walkways leading nowhere,
Stroll
harmlessly through passages
Seeking
exit into ghostly ruins
Filled
with the bodies of
Little
dead men,
Eyes
open, looking.
Remember
what they saw.
There
is no ruler; no rules.
This
is the law.
Waiters
on roller skates
Swerve
past tables of plaster
holding high their silver trays,
Aware
of only posture and grace,
Looking
this way and that
For
the correct table.
They
pause (only briefly) to nod to each other
Or
rub their jaw.
There
is no ruler; no rules.
This
is the law.
WINDOW VIEW
I
watched some leaves on
The
ground outside
Next
to a light
beige building with dark brown trim
And
they never moved. They stayed the
same.
I
watched them for hours but not for days.
WASTED IN THE NIGHT
The
night arrives quickly
As
of late.
It
breathes in a first breath
And
grins in anticipation
Of
yesterday’s unfinished business
And
this life.
At
odds with the soft light
Echoing
from inside buildings
And
persons unseen
But
for shadow.
Gliding
down city streets
The
night pauses (only for a moment)
And
licks its lips,
Winks
at the street people
And
continues on its journey.
The
night saw the rain fall
And
thought it oppressive;
Saw
ten thousand dreams
And
thought it amusing;
Spied
five ladies broken
And
laughed out loud.
The
night leaves too soon
With
tears in its eyes
And
gold in its pockets.
It
dreams of tomorrows
And
the lives it will steal.
SITUATION WARP
Like
smoke rings
From
a cigarette
They
left us alone.
Afraid
of the dangers
That
lay in the future,
Weary
of the sameness
That
stayed with the past.
Ridges
and rises
And
far away memories
Kept
distance between us
And
kept us apart.
We
wondered, “How long?”
For
most of the time
And
slept with the same fears,
Played
catch in the sand
With
a blue, rubber ball
We
found by a sailboat,
Watched
the gulls fly
Off
the horizon,
Wondered.
THE GATHERER DANCES
Only
in autumn:
Chill, nightly winds believe,
Young ones turn out to leave,
And
the Gatherer waits for his dance,
Only
in autumn
Will he drift from his palace
To fill his black chalice
With
the blundering children of chance.
Only
in autumn
When the sun sets swiftly
And the days drift quickly
And
the Gatherer walks in the wings,
Only
in autumn
Can he reach from the dark
And leave his dark mark
On
the children and all of their things.
Only by lying
Can he make them his
own.
Not by calls or by
darkness;
His name is not known.
Grim,
plastic face masks
And
tossed about rags,
Bo-Peep
and a sheep,
Red
paper bags.
The
Gatherer waited and called to us all.
Only
in autumn
Can the nights make this sound
When the children come ‘round
And
only in autumn can they answer his call.
TAPS
Passing the cemetery today I thought I saw a
soldier
Being buried in the mud.
His
eyes were closed,
His
features posed,
A
smile on his lips.
Beneath
the casket water trickled.
It
sprang from an underground stream.
And the soldier worried:
“Am I too young?”
“Am I too old?”
“Have I kept too silent?”
“Should my comrades be told?”
Above,
the horizon cleared,
Left
day as it was found;
Sunlight.
Ground.
The
people left to mourn,
They
were driven out of town.
Men
in black Cadillacs.
The
smile faded.
IN THE LAND OF THE KOONGA GIRLS
Iced
tea makes them vomit
And
heels hurt their feet.
Sandals
looking smiling faces,
Bourbon
on the rocks.
No
clarinets, smooth vocals,
No
farmers, geeks, or yokels.
Bamboo
stops the sunlight,
Ceiling
fans bring breezes.
Almond
eyes silking sarongs,
West
clothes to mop hot faces.
Red
guitars, screaming voices,
Plenty
laughter, plenty choices.
Drifting
slowly with the ocean,
Warming
sand beneath.
Fingers
cooling arms on fire,
Gentle
voices hum with peaceful.
Candles
burning, incense rises,
In
the land of no disguises.
A MAN WITH AN AX THINKING OF SWIMMING
I
saw a man with an ax
In
autumn on a hillside in
He
worked for a time
Then
rested,
Then
worked again.
The
ax was well-worn;
So
was the man.
There
was a lake behind him
And
the day was warm and dry; one of the last.
The
man was sweating
While
he swung his ax.
HER DARK EYES
Away
from here, her dark eyes
Think
curious thoughts
And
look out windows
Criss-crossed
by rain streaks
While
I sit on the couch
And
look at television,
Sound
turned down,
Thinking
of her dark eyes
Thinking curious thoughts
On
a rainy winter's evening.
No
moon to light the night.
Nothing
wrong, nothing right.
No
moon to light the night.
SIDESHOW
Someone
there is
Who doesn't know the
Carnival sideshow or
Wonder at
The grotesque little chessmen
Wobbling to their places
On bowed legs
Or
the clowns and barkers
Floating faces amid colored
Streamers and the sound of
Shoe leather on graveled path
The
smells of cotton candy
And candy apples,
Hot dogs, hamburgers
Sizzling on steel
Popping and crackling
In clouds of pale steam
The
occasional strong scent of
Diesel fumes when the wheel is spinning
its reds and greens into blur
Or the
With flashes of lightning and
Strong rhythm speakers
Then
dying away
Slow, like a sputtering candle
As stragglers scrape to their cars
Holding balloons and stuffed dolls
Lights flicker and fade off
Behind them against the sky
Burning crimson with children's
Enchantment and older folks dreams.
SCANNERS
I
Gently.
Let the ocean find its level,
Rising slowly about the water trees.
Along the sand alleyways,
It
spills the lives of thousands
Into
the mud
And
licks softly at the dawn.
Off in the distance,
A
ship lulls in the surf
Waiting
for the lighthouse
To
give it a shot.
Smelting sparks tumble in the horizon
As if they know
And settle into fantasy
By the ocean.
The tired,
The wealthy,
The desecrated, old ones
Pass
in front of the waters.
The
skies fill with lights and bright fires,
They
spill onto forests and funeral pyres.
They
bend over backwards
And
cause a romance.
They
spill onto Broadway, inspire a dance.
II
I
had a vision:
I saw the dead beauty.
She
was standing in front of yesterday’s boathouse
With
a glowing red robe in her hand.
She
threw the robe into the sea
And
smiled as it burned.
She
walked then,
She
grinned at the distance
And
the resistance
She
met from within.
She
crossed into meadows
Where
only the soul goes
And
laughed at the sickness
Of
the ladies in shadows
As
they stood with their sadness;
Mouths
open,
Crying
aloud
For the second act.
III
Burning
alone in the fields
Crying
among the silence in the night
Drowning
in the harbors of gloom
Screaming
with the voices of others
In
a vacuum.
IV
Universal
Pilgrim:
“You carry bags of books
And
wander around without a wallet.
You
reassure your companion
With
a credit card account
And
you make seem obscene
The
high-school queen
Settling
into motherhood.”
The
Citizen:
“Leave me alone.
I’ve had enough
Of your rantings,
Your crusted, old chantings
In the harbor.
“Your sickness is rampant.
It hides in the alleyways
Of sad, silent sinners;
Their ratty, old gardens.
“It glances at opulence
And laughs in its face
Until seven each day
When its time for tea.”
The
Author:
“Am I mad?
Have I come so far for
this?
Is this on target or is
something amiss?
Can I come to dinner
And expect a kiss?
“Or
is it too late?
And
is it too far?
And
can I get there only
Through
the sounds of the lonely?”
MOVING SEVEN EYES
They
are all around here, these moving seven eyes;
One
gone blind, one bleached white,
One
grown older, another shut tight.
The
one in the corner tells only lies;
A
pair wearing trenchcoats think they are wise.
They wait in the windows
And watch for the headlights;
They
search the horizon for gold,
They flutter, fade, and get into fights
And do anything that they're told,
Counting their passions on fingers and toes,
They calmly discuss the cut of their clothes.
One
gone blind, another shut tight--
These are the ones with the keenest sight.
THE PEACH PICKER
On
the edge of the orchard, I stopped in the sun.
The
peach picker labored, so far from done
With
his peach-picking playthings and his baskets of none
That
I wanted to help.
He
moved his ladder, limb after limb,
Picking
his peaches, the light growing dim
From
the sun falling slowly, its warmth lighting him,
Shining
from behind.
The
peach picker left then, drove away in the dark.
His
peach trees are empty now, the branches are stark,
And
I took out my knife, carved my name in peach bark,
And
the moon called me to sleep.
LAUNDROMAT
Washing
machines
And
crazy, dark ladies
Line
the walls and do nothing
But
look at each other.
Orange
plastic chairs wait
On
wobbly black legs;
Their
cracks are their souls.
Crazy,
dark ladies watch
On flabby, old legs;
Their
quarters are lifetimes.
ARTIFICIAL LIFE WITH ELECTRIC LIGHT
A
dirty room with pine board floor.
A
rusting car
Cranks
slowly and dies
in a cloud of blue smoke
smelling
of life hung in the air.
Soup in a can on a dust
covered shelf.
A wrinkled potato
Bobs, floating in a sink
soaking
some life from
the
cold, dingy water.
Walls behind walls
behind walls.
Yesterday's dreams
Go through gaps in the
ceiling
taking
their cue from
a
long ago feeling.
AUTUMN
Few
leaves on the trees;
the
ones left are golden.
Moss creeps slowly
up trunks,
not so slowly
it cannot be seen.
No
sun shines now.
No
warm place to sleep,
no
place to rest.
Rain claps against
windows,
staccato, like
a bad drummer.
No
moon lights the night.
The
animals prowl restlessly
waiting
for another day.
Girls wear brightly colored
nylon jackets
to keep out
the weather.
They
cover their hair with plastic.
Fires
burn slowly;
illumination,
little heat.
Cars with their
lights on
flash no warning
to the air.
Apartment
complex with sauna bath
Standing separate on a hill
Highway in view from the
pool.
On the balcony, a fool
Watches cars and takes a pill.
Joggers
jog the jogging path
Sweating
through their clothes;
All
of them like those.
Video
players with skin flicks
Run day and night and day
Afraid of the truth.
In their mirrors, youth
Laughs and cannot stay.
Yesterday
passes and gently picks
The
dying thorns from the stem;
All
of those like them.
Music
plays through pictures while
Rattling them on their walls,
Shaking paint to floors.
Inside, behind the
doors,
They walk quickly down the halls
Careful not to lose their style.
Cinderellas
at the ball;
Those
of them like all.
LIMBO
Dark
drummers beat
Hidden bass line
In limbo
Hidden on a backstage
Behind a black girl singer
Straining her voice,
Keeping subdued
In limbo
While dancers
Glide by
In silk dresses
And satin pants
Made in a Philippine
Shack
Laying back
In limbo.
POSSE FROM
They
chase after bad guys
And
water their horses.
Skies come and go alternating with blackness.
The
insides of their legs play dead while they ride
And they dream of their women
And warm, dry beds.
And they dream of fried chicken;
Bourbon at night.
In
the morning they pretend
And
sip at their coffee.
Daybreak
comes slowly, replacing the night.
They
saddle their horses and drown out the fire
And ride down the highways stopping only for gas
And they dream of their ladies
And their own waterbeds.
And they dream of baked flounder;
White
wine at night.
THE LIQUID MAN COMES HOME FROM
He
found a bent nickel lying on the ground
Next
to a piece of gravel or two
On
the road leading from
And
picked up the nickel,
Put
it in his pocket,
No
purchase in mind.
The
nickel escaped from a hole in his pants
And
slid down his leg back to the ground.
His
watch clicked on.
The
sun came and went.
He
found home.
The
paperboy came and told him, "A dollar five, sir."
He
pulled out his wallet, removing a dollar.
"I've
got a nickel here," he said,
Reaching
into his pocket.
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST
You
dropped a bit of icing
From
the Hostess cupcake
You
were eating
When
you got here.
After
you were gone I went outside,
Watered
the trees,
Came
back inside
And
tasted it
For
the memory.
EVENING TRIPS TO LOWER BROAD
One
color dead.
Sleep
comes badly in the twilight
Of
stars, moon, and streetlight.
Poured
magic from inside a kettle drum
Crashes
inside a skull
The
pounding made dull
By
ten thousand little dead men
From
Smelling
of shit and fish guts
In the chill of the evening.
One
color dead, one color broken.
Back
crushed on the sidewalk by middle-class winos
Searching
for a Porsche or designer clothes
On
the streets of the city.
Looking
through a bad mistake,
They
give their heads a valiant shake.
Afraid
to stop and smell the thickness of the exhaust
and
the stench of the Thermal Energy Plant and the
rich,
sweet gulps of downtown’s porno district with the
whores
and drunkards and quarter-a-pop flicks and
where
do you park the car?
And
where to go, what to do?
Park
cars at the hotel across the street?
Sweet
floors? Cook meat?
I
will wear dark glasses to make quick retreat
And
watch for city cops as they walk their beat
Taking
time to find defeat.
I
will buy potted plants to garnish the lobby.
I
will use my money to pain the ceiling.
It is my intention to heighten the
feeling.
To keep the mind close to reeling.
I
will only feed the helpless
They
know less
Than
others do.
But
the others still exist.
I
knew they would.
They
exist in the bowling alleys
Of
darkened, weeping wives
And
have always been.
PROM
Where
are the ladies from yesterday’s ball?
Have
they left their tomorrows waiting?
They
can listen to teardrops from yesterday’s fall
And
spend their evenings hating
The
memories of yesterday’s ball.
The ladies sit along the walls.
Hiding their eyes from the room,
They touch-up their lipstick
And brush off their cheeks.
They smile at their lovers
On the opposite side,
Grinning and drinking of war
And the future.
What
became of the memories of yesterday’s ball?
What
has become of the ladies?
They
have lapsed into silence and heard the shrill call,
Cast
their caution to the seas
And
forgotten yesterday’s ball.
DARKSHINE
I
write poems at night
When
sleep will not take me
Or
allow me escape.
I
am the madman, Madame,
And
I’ve come for your daughter.
You
boo-hoo until daybreak,
You
make Creole sauces,
Your
call upon Jesus,
And
polish your crosses
But
your daughter knows better.
She
walks on the nightpath;
Smokes
Marlboro cigarettes,
Drinks
western Chablis,
So
she doesn’t appear
All
that normal…for here.
But
don’t worry so much—don’t make
Yourself
nuts,
I
don’t sleep at night.
Still,
it doesn’t seem right
To
live without light.
CHRISTIANS
So
many secrets
inside these walls
and urges suppressed
that
they
lock you
up like
dreaming
free,
never free
from the others forever
unless to go simply to church,
to work,
to play
softball
free,
never free
for thinking
or not.
Hand
brushing over
The
hint of a breast;
Slender,
gentle arm.
Legs too long
Touched with blond down;
The hint of warm.
Deep
crystal eyes
Staring
within;
Soul
on fire.
Wet glistening back
Reminded of rain;
Body desire.
Lie
on the covers, it’s too hot beneath,
The
A.C. will battle the outside
Think
of silk dresses
And
bright, sparkling glowballs.
Feel
by quivering
Fingers
so near;
A
final misgiving.
Fashion mag mask face
Left all alone
One reason for living.
Then
come the tides of
And
plastic shovels and pails
Filled
with toe-dug clams
cherrystones and quahogs.
Little
girls, all arms and legs,
In
frilled bottom bathing suits
Not
far from the mothers.
Close
behind stirs Hammonnasset,
Rows
of trailers and a huge wood pavilion—
Cousins
in lifeguard chairs,
Honey
wagons in dreams
Or
sailing beyond
blue polka dots flapping
Dreaming
the waters of Rehobeth,
Of
surfboards and canvas rafts
Or
sand dusted boardwalks and ketchup.
Girls
in bikinis
Farther
down the beach
Out
in the ocean
But
close to the shore.
Fatigues
to my knees as
Darkness
closed in.
Thick,
brown, stinking bottom turn to
Women
on towels, coming back to the room
For
a shower and change.
Then
out to the street for
Oysters
on the
half,
bourbon on the
rocks,
walks around
Then
come the sands of the visions of
THE ATTEMPT TO RETURN AN INANIMATE OBJECT
A
vague gesture stood on the lawn
Next
to sliced milk jug weather vanes
And
tossed a coin
Over
its shoulder.
The
coin landed on the beak of a ceramic duckling and
Died.
Behind
the vague gesture,
Inside
a house,
A
very large man fried an egg
Over
easy
And
counted out the back beat to an old song.
A
woman he had never known heard him,
Tapped
her pink feet on the bathroom tile
And
tweezed a hair from her chin.
Alone,
on the lawn,
A
crying child returned to sleep.
JENNY
I saw her name
on
a white label
on
black shiny cardboard
After
the songs
and
the dinner
and
I’d known her forever,
Her long dark hair,
and
I called to her upon awakening
but she was away
so
I dropped the pink flower
that
I had picked
from the flowering peach
into a book of Keats
and
left it for another day,
Jenny.
HEADSET CASSETTE
With
a headset
Cassette
Play
on
Alone
Sitting
at a desk
Someone
could
Tap
your shoulder,
Kiss
your neck.
The
fear
Is
delicious.
THE ROAD TO LITTLE ROCK
Roller
coaster highway
Rides
from
Heading
west;
Flatlands,
The
devil rides the wind.
He
peeks through the vent,
Sends
the thunder; trucks,
Smiles
a toothy grin.
We
never see him east.
he
stays close to home,
Bathes
in the Old Man,
Loses
Interest.
BEFORE THIS ONE
I
wrote a poem
Right
before this one.
it
was a love poem.
I
erased it.
So,
I’ll tell you what to do.
Go
to my gravestone,
Listen
carefully.
I
will sing it to you.
HOUSEHOLD
A
young girl pulls on jeans,
White
socks her feet,
Slips
on athletic shoes,
Chooses
a thin turtleneck
And
over it, a plaid flannel shirt.
She
combs blond hair with hands,
Shakes
her head and checks her face
In
the smoky mirror,
Wonders
about the day,
Checks
a small blemish.
In
the back bedroom a baby cries for its mother.
She
throws a towel over her shoulder,
Heats
formula on the stovetop,
Checks
the temp on her wrist, dies of boredom,
Feeds
the kid.
It
squirms and giggles, drinks.
It
coos and wiggles, pukes on her shirt.
She
lays it back down,
Turns
on the TV,
Settles
in.
YOUNG LOVER
When
you were a child,
A
little girl,
What
did you dream?
Was
the house next door
A
giant face at night,
Windows
glowing light
Through
glass eyes
With
a central unit
Acting
the nose?
And
was there a smile
When
you were a child,
A
little girl,
Dreaming?
When
I was a child,
A
little boy,
Dreaming,
I
saw into the future.
A
little girl, dreaming,
Held
out her hand,
Afraid
of the face in the house
Next
door.
EPITAPH
And
downstairs, in a book of Keats,
a
newly thrust
pink flower
waits foolishly.
It should be removed,
But
someday, when I have forgotten,
the
book will be opened
by accident
and you could return
in a faulty memory
I can recognize your face
If
dreams be an omen,
Maybe to life.