A dozen years in seasons of days
sweeping light across the girl-child's
eyes unaccustomed to the night.
A kind of wisdom. (I dream of her
in the dark, my darkness, a stage.)
Slight, stooped, dusty, bare feet worrying
the roots of tumbleweeds and fruited bramble
growing in spurts, untended. Father
a conquering hero, liar and cheat,
gone for good. Mother spending time
waiting on men, waiting on tables
in a greasy cafe, the sorceress still,
dyed hair piled high as a crown upon
a furrowed brow. Passion spent in a rush
like the nouveau riche spend: all fleece and rubies.
In the end there's nothing for the kid
but spidery afternoons alone
imagining desire, throbbing
and hot as a black widow's bite,
consuming her flesh against her will.
originally published in Mississippi Valley Review, Spring 1994
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Tahiti
Death's young, lush, smooth skinned, canny,
posed au naturel, cocoa belly
down on an improvised divan, eyes
rolled back to study Gauguin (who
flatters himself she's scared of him). Slapping
liverish paint to a faux
background, fantasy blooms
where the native truth would be: an endless
queue of stunted men,
shuffling forward, shifting dumbly
outside thatched huts infested with fleas.
Inside Death squirms, ever horny, flexing
moist pink lips as if he were a child,
slow to see where to fix his bristling
prick, bury Art, take his pleasure now.
originally published in the G.W. Review, spring 1999
posed au naturel, cocoa belly
down on an improvised divan, eyes
rolled back to study Gauguin (who
flatters himself she's scared of him). Slapping
liverish paint to a faux
background, fantasy blooms
where the native truth would be: an endless
queue of stunted men,
shuffling forward, shifting dumbly
outside thatched huts infested with fleas.
Inside Death squirms, ever horny, flexing
moist pink lips as if he were a child,
slow to see where to fix his bristling
prick, bury Art, take his pleasure now.
originally published in the G.W. Review, spring 1999
Monday, March 1, 2010
Gone
1.
You disappear so beautifully.
Eyes wide, perfectly aligned,
as if you could see, as if
Matisse's joy
might be happiness...the azure/
pumpkin/scarlet fields set
lightly inside his penciled outline.
The main star shines, no glare.
And it's possible that
somewhere less frantic
charged particles
rest before they exit.
2.
But blonde light, like a starlet's
hair, sweeps all things
equally: calamity rests,
fallow in the field.
And the north-bred yearling hawk
looms motionless, like a stuffed
& mounted version of himself.
Watching. Shadowless. Red eyes wide
& perfectly aligned. And then,
when it's time, he just disappears.
originally published in the Minnetonka Review
You disappear so beautifully.
Eyes wide, perfectly aligned,
as if you could see, as if
Matisse's joy
might be happiness...the azure/
pumpkin/scarlet fields set
lightly inside his penciled outline.
The main star shines, no glare.
And it's possible that
somewhere less frantic
charged particles
rest before they exit.
2.
But blonde light, like a starlet's
hair, sweeps all things
equally: calamity rests,
fallow in the field.
And the north-bred yearling hawk
looms motionless, like a stuffed
& mounted version of himself.
Watching. Shadowless. Red eyes wide
& perfectly aligned. And then,
when it's time, he just disappears.
originally published in the Minnetonka Review
Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Stranger
Consider life's billion anxious
gulps of oxygen, smog porridge
sucked ad nauseam. If a wily
Camus invites us to agree
that Sisyphus is happy, I'm
satisfied to dream Camus'
Algeria: super-heated sands
hemming the Mediterranean,
and a raucous newborn
gleaming with slime, a just-plucked
shell held high into the sun. Her
nomad-father's rutted palms
obliterate all light, his desert-
dimmed eyes squinting to find
stripes, moles, stigma, signs—
imperfections to justify
a drowning. No surprise. Just too few
dried figs, no gods or fires
driving them forward, into the sea,
ancient terrors, shallow waters
heaving salt, fish, history.
originally published in The Brownstone Review No. 5; re-published in P.F.S. Post
gulps of oxygen, smog porridge
sucked ad nauseam. If a wily
Camus invites us to agree
that Sisyphus is happy, I'm
satisfied to dream Camus'
Algeria: super-heated sands
hemming the Mediterranean,
and a raucous newborn
gleaming with slime, a just-plucked
shell held high into the sun. Her
nomad-father's rutted palms
obliterate all light, his desert-
dimmed eyes squinting to find
stripes, moles, stigma, signs—
imperfections to justify
a drowning. No surprise. Just too few
dried figs, no gods or fires
driving them forward, into the sea,
ancient terrors, shallow waters
heaving salt, fish, history.
originally published in The Brownstone Review No. 5; re-published in P.F.S. Post
Bridge
I know your arms & legs are cold.
In November the river shifts
slowly, silver ghost of its body
barely stirred, ice already forming.
And today, midday, I heard you moan.
Grinding bones of a steel-strapped frame.
As if you had moved, or tried to.
As if the surging light was painful.
originally published by the Toledo Review
In November the river shifts
slowly, silver ghost of its body
barely stirred, ice already forming.
And today, midday, I heard you moan.
Grinding bones of a steel-strapped frame.
As if you had moved, or tried to.
As if the surging light was painful.
originally published by the Toledo Review
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Dune Rose
It's the name of a lipstick I wear
most days, proving
poetry's indomitable, ingrained, like the Namer
herself, wrestling thousands of new
untitled tubes- scarlets,
magentas, blue-reds, browns- but none
a gash, none a wound, no blood,
nothing wilted.
Stumbling cylinder to cylinder,
knowing full well what these balms
mean to a woman
dogging beauty.
Then at night, alone, aged skin
phosphorescent & furrowed
as a moon, she tends garden.
Pruning, shaping, watering
roots she planted in sand,
watering the sand.
originally published in New Zoo Poetry Review Volume 5
most days, proving
poetry's indomitable, ingrained, like the Namer
herself, wrestling thousands of new
untitled tubes- scarlets,
magentas, blue-reds, browns- but none
a gash, none a wound, no blood,
nothing wilted.
Stumbling cylinder to cylinder,
knowing full well what these balms
mean to a woman
dogging beauty.
Then at night, alone, aged skin
phosphorescent & furrowed
as a moon, she tends garden.
Pruning, shaping, watering
roots she planted in sand,
watering the sand.
originally published in New Zoo Poetry Review Volume 5
Freud's Bowery
The artist means to take control: ribboning linen,
preening paint (ochre, ebon, gold!), laying
light in oily waves to an image
he creates: one absurdly out-sized, nude,
hairless man, mounded bellies hung over dancer's gams,
long mauve penis ripening with blood
while eyes once lost in a sea of fat and skin
press forward to command, first the painter,
then those who stand in the gallery gaping.
originally published in Threepenny Review 73
preening paint (ochre, ebon, gold!), laying
light in oily waves to an image
he creates: one absurdly out-sized, nude,
hairless man, mounded bellies hung over dancer's gams,
long mauve penis ripening with blood
while eyes once lost in a sea of fat and skin
press forward to command, first the painter,
then those who stand in the gallery gaping.
originally published in Threepenny Review 73
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