noticed something new today
the water tower
that says “Florence Y’all” looks like
KFC bucket
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.
my baby’s got immaculate taste
same guy since back in the day
just more pain and fat in the face
my passion the same
never chased the cash and the fame
never chased much of anything
but packin some strains
and my imagination
trapped up in their databases
brother died at an early age
been saddled with this weight
everybody fightin everyday
a battle but won’t say
a lot just suffer in silence
there’s no love in the violence
thinkin bout it puffin on hybrids
my baby’s people come from the island
in the fridge
she leaves me coquito
in the freezer
she keeps mad sofrito
wanna eat her
culo no un piquito
wanna treat her
like she treat her people
beautiful boricua
she teach me
bout The Young Lords
that’s how you fight evil
only way gun or sword
gotta be ready to die for your people
fuck these slumlords
she teach me
they made her flag illegal
and how they sterilized women on the island
how they terrorized children with their violence
we terrorize children with our silence
verified killings on our devices
paralyzed from willing ourselves out this crisis
it’s a barely alive feeling clingin on to our vices
stare into your eyes but singin to tiny violins
airing your mind spine tinglin reciting the hymns
it’s indefensible
a lot what we try to defend
it’s invincible
a lot what we fightin within
cut it with fentanyl
fore you put those lines in your skin
cut it with chemicals
you’ll still buy it again
