I still crouch to sweep a hopeful hand
through lush carpets of clover,
with each waddling step a reminder
of the child who tried her luck
at gluing a fourth to the existing three
and of the memory that houses the elation
of finding a true four-leafed rarity
The burning question behind lidded lashes
A blue blaze of truth I’m compelled to seek, feeding knowledge and fear:
Do you see me when you close your eyes?
Does the touch on your hand
Whisper the breeze of my name?
Lightly and soft
Sinking under the chill on your skin?
In violet nights of seaglass moon
Unbind me where the waves can drown sound
Hold me in breath
Taste me in salt
Then slowly tuck away
The dream
Who killed verbosity?
Was it me, trying to get a point across
Or the fruit company, throwing away so many peaches
pears apples grapes oranges bananas
figs mangoes pineapples strawberries watermelons
Or were they just throwing away fruit
long clouds laid out
like panting dogs
upon the sky.
baking pavement,
swimming in the heat,
ready to burn paws.
sparse trees,
young and small and weak
and unrelentingly green.
I’m tailing the next car,
up to the next hill,
up to the rise,
up a speed table.
it’s a lonely kind of upwards
(they only let dead dogs into space)—
fast and wyrd and
utterly expected.
I imagine I can pull the car’s steering wheel
up, like a plane’s.
I’d fly into the gravitational blue
(like so many before me),
and leave a fluffy white tail:
daylight shooting star.
How easily fairy lights and pitch fabric become stars strung in space.
Written on Epcot’s Spaceship Earth during a momentary delay that turned into an on-ride evacuation
These are the people of my town
Up and down the streets
All I can say about the people of my town
Is man they can’t be beat
Mike he owns the hardware store
Bought it from his daddy
His wife cuts hair across the street
She’s friends with my aunt Patti
The guy who likes to feed the cats
Wants you to stop and talk
“There’s fifteen plus a new one
hope no one calls the cops”
Old man Gill ain’t over the hill
He walks ten miles a day
Did you know he shot two hole in ones
When he was sixty eight
Widow Jones is a pretty nice lady
Has the most beautiful daughter
All I can say about her cooking
Is she pours a good glass of water
Bruce he wears an invisible suit
Full of self righteous rage
Hates all people of this town
Especially the blacks and gays
Dee is a gossip extraordinare
Really likes that money
Drawn to the rectums of the rich
Like a fly that goes to honey
Larry has bar in the center of town
Where my dog can get a drink
And you’ll always see the millionaire
With owner of the roller rink
If you really want to know what going on
It’s Brenda’s beauty shop
Today it’s genealogy
Of the girl with green crewcut
Michael’s living in his van
He hasn’t been right since Pakistan
Miss Martha in rain is walking her dog
Wearing her husband’s London Fog
The lady at the counter of the Stop n Go
Has beautiful smile and an angel’s glow
Firemen, policemen, bankers and thieves
Factory workers, packs of teens
Chicken in a bread pan picking out dough
Grab your partner and do se do
That’s my town
Talkin bout my town
Talkin bout my town
Talkin bout my town
They build their new homes from bombs
Burned brown bodies blown beyonder
USA printed proudly on hollow shells
We got bodies we can claim
We all should be ashamed
Tens of thousands cost cutting
police guns resold on American streets
Greed is the creed in the land of the freed
Bruised broken brown bodies bulleted buried
Youthful voices silenced
with brute force
vanished futures
It seems like a theme
or a recurring dream
