Friday, January 23, 2009

Poetry on Parade

The dogs were first on the scene, first to
look puzzled at the scraps of poetry
flying across the hardwood floor.
Desert lizards let themselves in through
the open window in the back and
slid their way toward a batch of experimental
sonnets that were swirling around a fan.
I was the last to know that my
girlfriend had trashed my bell bottoms,
the last to know that my rollerskates
were still hanging out on the stairs,
the last to know that poetry was making
a comeback among the creatures in the hall.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Opera on Ice

It was time for the tenor to walk
the walk and belt out some polar
bear tones with bloody feeling.
I saw it from down under as a
walrus in steel helmet kind of
German persuasion thing that
would make even the freaky Wagner
proud to be shivering in his boots.
A pretty soprano with tits that
could make an orchestra cry took
center stage and melted the hearts of
many a frozen passenger.
Without missing any of my toes,
I skated away with my baritone
still intact and my magnetic north
settling in for the season.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

It Will Be a Coltrane Day in Heaven

I walked the walk as a soprano
sax warble splashed against the
walls of blue and sweet sand.
It was Coltrane condensation that
ennobled my pebbled heart to
thread the margins of a cascade eye.
In the afternoon of arabesque
organs, a pumping heaven found
the stain of Medici on a baritone
gallery of vermilion love.

Representational Rocks

As I take one last shaky step
away from the light, I pocket
my count of the dry rocks on an
inverse path to a psychic waterfall.
Soon there will be representational
art in the center of the canyon that
can outlast my unstable astronomy.
I dig up mothers who had manipulated
their fuzzy children as if they
had been testing one of Euclid's theorems
without a pavilion of spiral netting.
It is the pathology of rocks that sweetens
my salty fluids as a spherical palace of
silver girders supports the knuckled horizon.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Boating with a Butcher

We counted by the leaf, by the
fingernail dug into the desert.
It was ours by default, it was
our green oasis with folding chairs.
No one saw the tinfoil swan take a
dive, it was up to me to tie the
cartilage to the bridge that spanned
the endless flow of a gardener’s grit.
The water fooled us all by cracking
the bodies down to their knuckles,
by breaking the backs like a butcher.

Versions of Henry and June

If it is the Paris Henry remembers, it
is not the one that June claims to inhabit.
He followed all the skinny legs across the
melting snow until he had rope burns at the knee.
Henry recuperated in a trapdoor apartment with
a photograph on the bed of June as
a burglar with her legs living in a penthouse.
It was the Paris Henry could not know in
his corrosive days inflicting bruises on a typewriter.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Speed Limit to the Moon

At first, I couldn't fathom the possibility of
speeding off to the Moon at a moment's notice.
I mean, I don't remember hearing of anyone
else taking the chance of putting the pedal to
the metal and flooring it to the stars.
So on Sunday night in my aging Altima, it
came as a big-bang sized surprise to
come upon a route that seemed to go
off into the sky, but also there was a
speed limit of 25 miles per hour posted.
What was I to make of this sign, this
speed limit to somewhere way out of my zip code.
Not to be discouraged, I didn't figure that
the Highway Patrol would be chasing me
down for speeding around the Moon.
With nothing better to do on my Sunday
night (I was going in search of my own
Golden Globes at this point), I took a
chance on visiting the outer reaches of
something before daybreak and once
again gravity would be cramping my style.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Dropping Count

I started counting from left to right and
still I couldn't keep up, couldn't keep time.
It was a Beatles song or maybe the Byrds.
I settled for something less, something for
me to lose track of, to wash down the wall.
It went fractal on me in a shifting moment.
My eyes subtracted dimension, my fingers
reached for random drops of infinite rain.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Playing Tennis Without a Net

There is no correction on improvement in
the sway of ambition and routine redefinition of
bread as first judged to be reputable.
All encouragement was crowned with
mercy and spit, and driven like a spike into
the humble institution of tennis.
I took an oath, I cleaned a revolution of all its
spots, and took a frosty sojourn across
the field of knife fights and pick ax excursions.
The poem returned to abstraction without
vowels, without sprung rhythm.
I was of no help with my humanist
palms and grasshopper syntax.
The truth needed to be worked over
behind the woodshed, as our good neighbor
Robert Frost let the air out of radicalism.
It is the crooked way that wins the worm,
that farms the bird, that converts the net into grandeur.