maybe I’d be happy
if I could only eat raspberries,
pinkish-red, tart, sticky-sweet
soft fruit skin bubbles
becoming tiny hats
dancing on playful fingers
under a setting sun
in the distance
where neighborhood kids gather
at dark for a game of manhunt
after the power goes out
for the third time this week
and everyone emerges from their homes
to make small talk with neighbors they barely know
to stave off loneliness
to press through the heat
of another summer passing by
It happens every Wednesday,
At our favorite pub, you see,
A grand form of entertainment,
And participation of course, is free.
“Questionable Activities”
Is the name by which it goes,
A chance to see between the beers,
Just how much we know.
Drinks are bought when we arrive,
And by seven we form our teams,
Something a wee bit suggestive,
To embarrass Drew it seems.
Drew, you know, is the master of ceremonies,
The questions are all his,
They cover many topics,
And at stumping us, he’s a whiz.
So we settle into concentration,
On the first round as it starts,
With any luck it’s stuff we know,
Or believe deeply in our hearts.
Sometimes the knowing things,
Just isn’t quite enough,
If your team has cause to doubt you,
Can you persuade or bluff?
Then comes the half-time question,
It’s a chance to get ahead,
With a few more points offered,
And they’ll stand you in good stead.
Then on we go to the second half,
And the question are a bit more tough,
We do the best we can,
And we hope we know our stuff.
And then the fourth segment,
“The Dark and Bloody Round”,
It’s only questions about Kentucky,
And experts on the state expound.
And the final bonus question,
Well, it finishes out the game.
We place our bets on what we know,
And then we place the blame.
Then the points are all totaled,
And the prizes are all paid,
And if there aren’t too many on your team,
Your bar tab has been made.
We have ourselves one more round,
And discuss the finer points of the game,
“Who was that guy in question three?
“ I can’t recall his name.”
And we speculate about who played fairly,
And who maybe was in cahoots,
But you know that’s just the way it goes,
In these trivial pursuits.
We had a full tank of expectations,
new tires, pinkish dreams of Camelot
in a desert state, Tucson, not vacation,
old life ditched in a Denny’s parking lot.
I won a grand at the Diamonds casino,
thought finally we had turned a corner,
fools gold, our crane flew out the window,
the piper would come for his share later.
You claimed someone did a number on me,
warped my brain on cheap booze, yours on peyote,
lost you to chakra, tarot card, moon breeze,
drove through the night, back to Kentucky.
Desert’s cold, our love dead from exposure,
twenty years on I’m still searching for closure.
Synchronicity’s Ballot
List of Candidates
Road trip stoplights
South Carolina exitramp
Lazy River at the hotel pool
Absurd rally televised
Local news
Columbia or Charleston
Doesn’t matter.
I love how you
Set out for lobster
And damnit somehow despite it
The picture in your mind
Stays clear
For now
Lingers only with
Sweet pink wine in its chandelier bottle
What vessel
Teacups or dreams of Eschers zebras
Quilt-patched
Carried side-clasped
Your name
Leave it to me
Absurd, insisting I have to know
What light
Anyway it was constant
Of course of course
Summer beach stay
Narrows it down: July
Sun City (oh no) I find out (despite myself)
How poetic
Date turned up in Mothers Jones
Of all places
Right, the lobster
Scanners
A shell or four
Suntanned
Courtyard or a maze
Navigated
A shorter drive home
Maybe through the night
Maybe not, I can’t remember.
Oh Lord
Chance coincidence
In fighting stance now
Or ready to dance
I can’t tell
Mis-dreaded porch encounter
Flowing
Like milk over leaded saucers
Under some podium
A straw hat I stole
From a cabin
In Michigan and I do know
I’ll never recall that city
No reference point
No last hope laundry list to bring
Sorrow combustion belief disbelief
All together
In the same room
The marbles didn’t shake out
That way
Or whatever Sam would say.
Kick sand
Out of your shoes
Instead
Of walking on glass,
Stop at red lights
For Christs sake, and
Wash out that mouth with some soap
And water
Smoking your first cigarette
A gleaming marble pillar
Holding up
‘Grand Opening Day’ signs
In front of the Parthenon
Hallelujah on the Piano
Humming Golden Years
In the fresh minted city, at the late hour—our choices were baffling. We faced a full complement of man-dogs on the streets who died howling without real names. They suspected all old, broom wielding women. Nona Sue called young Guglielmo Guglielmi in for supper with a blunderbuss. The Danimal slept in a ball in front of Hanni’s place, where the Muslims saw a brick fly through the front plate glass. Bob came out proud with a shillelagh from Threads to brain the brutes. Alas no coward stood tall to perform such an act with a showdown. A car whizzed down Bardstown. Danimal grunt-swatted a mosquito, relieved himself. A squat between patrol cars. His frozen corpse at five months. A bench and plaque, we dedicated. Every ghost and civilian he knew buried him.
The light glances cold
Kentucky lotto is spent
we’ve turned predator
He sat there. We knew it. The bench melted snow at 20 below. Bob arrived at Threads early to settle accounts, preparing a conch of palo santo, sage, copal, myrrh, and frankincense to fill the biting air. It was his song. A concert from ’71 in Oregon. Hello Dan, you can go home. Dan replied, “I am. Thank you for noticing.” I see you, replied the bald-topped long-haired shopkeep, staring over top his spectacles with a twinkle. Go on home now, your mother’s calling you.
Witch hazel blossom
spidery, ambling the blooms
make family at once
Komorebi:
Looking Glass Reng’ha
Were you a nurse?
A maid?
A lady of means?
What is the sash
that dangles from your belt?
I believe Charles S. Rawson
an “artist”
knew these answers.
Working from his studio
at 508 Fulton St.
near Bond
in Brooklyn,
he knew the answers.
He met you,
knew you.
“Artist” that he was,
he saw how beautiful you were.
But he
like you
is gone.
I could already shoot straight, but
Literacy
YMCA membership
A new New Testament
Education in civics
Regular bathing
until I hit the trenches
Trench foot
Belly crawl in No Man’s Land
on an empty belly
The rattle of tommy guns
Fear that squeezed my throat
Froze my heartbeat
Summoned courage
A smattering of French
(outward) Sobriety
A heart for chance, the gamble
Horses
Sports
Cards
Craps
Not blinded by gas
Surviving
Expectation of vice raids
Appreciation for social purity
How to avoid the clap
If I wouldn’t use someone else’s toothbrush,
why would I use his whore?
A German bullet is cleaner than that.
A soldier thinking below the belt lacks efficiency.
My wooden leg and purple heart
Damn, it’s good to be home.
