Locomotive, set at odds with us, like a dead god.
A god who always been dyin’, dyin’ down the track.
God—oh strange God—not trying to revive husks
of shucked corn—stillborn on cobs in Missouri fields
where buried effigies and pedigrees remind us —
expect a resurrection.
“The android speaks in free verse,” “Speak now, when there is too much else to hold” and “#52”
A theory:
It is actually 2024.
Six years ago,
My job was determined to be automatable,
And I was replaced by a robot
Designed to scour the internet for pictures of women wearing red lipstick
“As if it mattered,” “There Are Others: x-mas at the bar” and “The sound of lonely”
I’ve been lost before
On the wings of a skeletal butterfly
And carried over the landscape
Of my own mind.
A little bee hive
Plush with synapsed ants
Just getting by
In feigned importance.
“On Returning to the Vineyard,” “After My Mother’s Funeral” and “Lead Us Not into Temptation”
The rain is not even similar here—
the particular slant,
its lack of urgency.
The buildings don’t obscure the wind
like my windy city.
I am caught and swept away into a faint picture.
“Huevos Rancheros,” “Orange Sharpie” and “Ivory Finger”
sometime i am moved by unspeakable rages
sometime i am choked by a mescaline sadnesses
am i
am i
you r
thy wr once a gift
“They All Died in Vietnam,” “Echoes from My Mother’s Closet” and “No”
Three forest cousins, all boys, my summer secrets /
We hiked under hawk shadows, spun pancake flat shale /
stones touch tipping Loyalsock Creek, arrowheads, /
rattlesnake skins longer than my arms, salamander wranglers /
The oldest Vernon lingered longest with my grandmother’s stories /
He never liked to hunt except for stars and no one cared, not even the army
Song for Circe
Oh, Anna Marie,
the Ohio grass was green
the trees were
green has died
in your winter
lightning strikes fork on
your temple tremors these
Shawshank cornerstones
fall to dirt
shakes and groans in thirsting throats
“I Want a Good Death,” “So, I Want to Start a Concentration Camp” and “The Flag, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, and Saint Rita”
It is a funny thing to turn thirty-four
It takes me no more than ten minutes
Of staring at yellowing maple leaves
To restore the thought that even my maple trees will die
And then, it hits me:
I want a death with all of the proper documentation
It is true, even if it may not be the case in certain parts of
Pakistan and India
“The Fiddle Playing Librarian Dream,” “Now We Drown in the Cold Horse River” and “We Will Eat Silver Moon Cakes Til Dawn”
The cold horse river spills Indian eyes
Angel feathers burn in gold smoke
Soul civilizations were robbed of serene mirrors
Creek hearts fall over the dream cliff
Telepathic windows catch dead bird words
The good-bye tunnel links lost voices to the underworld
“Off Easy,” “Hey, Mr. D.” and “You Said to Come Ready”
Hey, Mr. D. I see you. Do you see me?
You call my number twice a day.
Sometimes more. I cause you
no trouble. I do as you say.
Hey, Mr. D. Do you see me?
I know the sounds of your step.
Your black sneakers are my
favorite. Even though your
pants are too short.
“In another time, in another place,” “The walking fish” and “Under the bone”
My skull is thin as twice an ostrich egg,
a finite orb. But buried dark and thick
a universe of tiny stars sits cheek
by jowl beside grey matter, like blinking
fireflies in the branches of a pine tree
after dusk. This is no special magic.
“leaving home,” “leftovers” and “moving on”
a picture taken every day,
deposits
for my heart
through my eyes
one day you’d leave
and i’d have you
right there,
in my pocket,
in my hands,
always
“Freyja, or How I Became the Snake That Even in the Garden Eats Itself,” “Concerning Paradise,” and “Aubade with Death & Good Fortune”
i tried something awful
to impress
at the edge
of a koi pond
& slipped.
an olive film
couldn’t know
i loved her. in years i found
if i hit my palm against my jaw hard & fast
under running water it created
a band of fuzzy light
& done again
the ringing was renewal.
“Apple-Cold,” “Not Understanding,” and “If”
It is that first cold
that brings the apples,
the apple-cold,
the cold that moves the white moon
further, further up the tree,
the cold where the still, clear sky
lifts and stretches out
as if waking and making itself ready
for when the apples
and the moon
and the warm sun are gone,
“Notes on Starvation”
I always thought this poem would be about an ex,
or the child I still wish for sometimes.
Then I realized it was about you
and my bones stopped.
When I told you I had learned not to trust the village,
you cried with me. Held my tears in soft hands
and mixed honey into my tea.
Honey that outlasted us.
“Primetime Jabberwock, Harry Didn’t Clown Around,” “Septuagenarian’s Stroller Soundtrack,” and “Clownpourri”
Let’s not get mathy Cathy or walk
away Resnais but Colonel Tibbets’
Enola Gay thunderous mushroom
fireburst above Hiroshima mon amour
41 days before I’m born instantly
zapped 79,831, perhaps somewhat
more than a third of that once
gorgeous city’s population —
it was filmed for our viewing
pleasure by a companion B-29
ironically named Necessary Evil
“Be Mine,” “Premium Assortment,” and “The Past and Her Muse: a Blazon”
I linger over plump, plush, push-up-bra valentines,
those with glitter and bling, iridescent textured papers,
laser-cut-love in plastic, wood, flammable, frameable
rice paper, limited-edition fabrications to rival-any third
world butterfly. Cards as big as a menu in a decadent
Antoine’s or Galatoire’s of 1960s New Orleans. Will
this memento salve an indiscretion
“Severe Weather Warning,” “Alive,” and “Mundane”
Droughts are just as dangerous as floods
I’m not an artist I just like holes in my
body
And daydreaming of ink in my veins
Circling in charcoal patterns my father once drew
With strong hands. We shared the old studio.
I’m not emotional I just like the electric color of red eyes
And showering in the dark with someone else’s
Voice echoing my thoughts in the background