I'll Show You Mine

2011-08-04T09:07:00.001-04:00

MY FIRST WORDS WERE FLOOR IT

From the angle of the sun
through my bedroom window
this morning, I can tell:
it is 1986. The community college
parking lot is bursting with Firebirds;
stereo lights are constellations.
At night, the clouds thicken
into an empty map. They reflect
the light from down town. This morning
is one minute between rains,
and the drops on the leaves
are blinking messages from the future,
and while decoding them, I've forgotten
what year it is.

Now that I've scraped the house,
it is time to decide what color to paint,
but I feel like the work is done.
The house, streaked and ugly, is
what happens now; the house
painted grey-blue with white trim
is in the shady fortune-cookie future.

When I was learning to drive,
my first words were "floor it."
But now, in the future, I know
so many more. My foot eases
the pedal down; I repeat
the grocery list in my head.

Edgar the Crawfish

2011-06-10T15:00:00.000-04:00

Ed's armor-like shell
is made of plastic, but
he magnetically points East
toward Chocolate Bayou
and the big Bay, toward
summertime canals
broken by cannonballs,
and toward redfish schooling
beneath the Twilight Princess

Away in New York, we sip
crustacean-colored cocktails
while we wait for hot Friday
night to fall. Follow Kevin's
curses from the back room:
we will lock a cherry beneath
the knuckle of a lemon
and twist up a straw for you.

2011-04-30T21:14:00.000-04:00

Nearly to Bay Ridge, a girl in red high heels took one off on the 4th Ave. R platform to put a bandage on her foot, and I was reminded of you. Maybe it WAS you; tired memory could not tell me, but I was momentarily caught between the mystery of our present and a passion in my past, and the sight of your shoe alone on the concrete busted my heart up into a hundred thousand tiny red flowers.

2011-04-15T05:51:00.003-04:00

Ancient History

Curious. What we remember
from across an age -- eight years
ago, evening light like marmalade
on a tar-paper roof, and a girl
bent out the back window.

Coins clinking on the concrete
floor of the bar beneath the highway,
but there were no coins, but
there was definitely a bar.
Light the color of a dirty Popsicle
cut up on the floor by the blinds.

But the mornings I remember best,
the light reflecting blue off of your bedspread.
I'd find a dirty shirt for work while, in your sleep,
you pushed yourself against your bed.

2011-04-12T12:25:00.003-04:00

The Sticky 'Rickshaw

Your manners are skittery, Mr. Agnes,
are you frightened? The sign of the sine as defined
by this sunguard's line is all we have to go on, how
is your gradeschool geometry? The click of hoof
and wheel on stone will tick a thousand blessings
until: silence, and we are at the embassy, Mr. Agnes,
your reckoning delayed once more.

2011-04-11T11:42:00.003-04:00

Between the Grains

What hides down inside
these planks of wood?
Stringy cellulose
on a bed of lignin
or, in softer species,
tracheids. But probably not
my keys.

2011-04-08T13:14:00.004-04:00

The Water and the Faucet

From the deepest Adirondacks it comes
through tunnel and town, emerging
cold as a Coors from my tap.

2011-04-07T12:28:00.005-04:00

Sloughters Do It Better

and they do it from the Morrissey
concerts of Manhattan to the thoroughbred
sales of Ocala. Sloughters are an inspiration
in their decadence and their eloquence.

You who have explored the empty lots
of Asia. You whose birthday was attended
by Li'l Jon. You are the hard-chiseled soul
of our beloved Montechillo.

2011-04-06T11:31:00.001-04:00

Come Back Brontosaurus

because I am as useless as a fire hydrant
in the backyard. Come over hand, and
meet this other hand. From the dirty
sands of memory and apathy, release
from your long necks and from your big mouths
a sound as big as a meteor and as bright
as a volcano. This is where our hearts began.

2011-04-05T09:22:00.002-04:00

While An April Storm The Cat

While another April storm
rolls in, the cat is acting weird
again. He sits in the bathroom
staring at the wall like a depressed
teenager, but (like me)
he is approximately middle-aged.

 I try to remind myself that his walnut brain
cannot stand up to my pathetic fallacies,
but still here I am on the bathroom floor
staring at the cat, trying to divine
my own ideas by imagining his.

finding fine things in dirty tides

2011-03-29T13:25:00.001-04:00

Dear friends, freaks, and bigger fishes,

The brave among us will wade through a rare Wednesday reading when the abundantly talented and attractive Dora Malech and Kristin Jane Kelly will join us for a reading in the back room of the famous Face. This will be an unusually good reading, even by our high standards.

6:30 PM on April 6th at the fabulous Four-Faced Liar. Bios below.

See you there!

Shafey

*

Dora Malech grew up in Maryland, earned a BA in Fine Arts from Yale in 2003, and earned an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 2005. She is the author of Shore Ordered Ocean (Waywiser, 2010), and Say So (CSUPC). She has taught writing at the University of Iowa; Victoria University’s International Institute of Modern Letters in Wellington, New Zealand; Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa; Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois; and Saint Mary’s College of California in Moraga, California. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.

Kristin Kelly, a native Kansan, received a BA from University of Oregon and an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She is the author of Cargo (Elixir Press), and currently lives in Northampton, MA, where she owns a women's boutique, ODE.

Shunts, Crampons, and Dongles

2011-02-25T11:29:00.001-05:00

slipping on ice, snow, etc.
we passed a whole winter

a spiked iron plate worn
down with wear

a device for grasping and lifting
heavy loads, usually consisting
of a pair of hooks; opposable thumbs
and fingers menacing as claws

boots or shoes aid in climbing
or to prevent sores all over our feet

suspended from a chain or cable,
upward pull of our funny little jobs and needs:
tension for the hooks to grip the load

the act of shunting; shift

bridged across a circuit or a portion of a circuit,
establishing a current path auxiliary to the main circuit,
as a resistor placed across the terminals of (I am)
or increasing the range of the device

(a railroad switch.)

blood or other bodily fluid is diverted
from its normal path; my mind is buzzing
with my own medical misunderstanding

a hardware device is attached without which particulars
will not run: used to prevent us from staring for hours
at a single word; three words annihilate an entire morning

2011-02-20T14:45:00.000-05:00

Is every Billy in history
a lovable, troublesome heartbreaker,
or does it just seem that way right now?

Bryan the Punk Rock Butcher (Senior!)

2011-02-14T21:08:00.000-05:00

a miniature Punk Rock Butcher
is delivered unto the Catskills today

let the snowy hills ring with a fuzzy G
chord, for the world now has another
really cool dad

happy birthday Miss Punk Rock
Butcher Junior,

& don't buy the expensive knives
they'll just wear out anyway

2011-02-13T22:31:00.000-05:00

If you live near New York City, and you don't go see Hayes Carll play at Housing Works on Tuesday, well, you are wicked stupid. He's kinda like if Alex Battles and I made a baby.

2011-01-06T11:12:00.000-05:00

That comfortable feeling is upon me
of a single finger slipped into
an undergarment's elasticity.
Maybe it's the cold Gulf Coast
humidity; maybe it's uncertainty,
or maybe it's just stupidity.
It seems like anything is almost
possible, but when I'm here,
nothing is also fine with me.

Bitch...Just Joshing!

2010-12-15T16:16:00.000-05:00

Just rode the L train with a gaggle of NY teenagers, all of whom seemed cooler and more fully-realized than I've ever felt in my life. One of them asked what "joshing" means. Another said "that's what you say when you're kidding; like, "bitch... just joshing!"" Then two of the guys demonstrated it. One said "bitch...just joshing," and then the two of them hugged.

2010-11-23T09:59:00.000-05:00

A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

Times Square burned daylight down
onto the avenue long after
the sunset's leftovers disappeared.

I moved from tavern to tavern
talking about girls and commas,
commas and girls.

My companion for the evening
was a tough guy from Cleveland,
and when a particular bouncer
decided he'd have enough of us,
my friend showed me the truth
behind his short stories.

We were the terrors of the Square
until his honey called, and the night
was over.

Back home, I am trying to tell
my story to a word processor,
but I picked up some faint scent
of yours in my hair, and now
my tired brain thinks only of you.

2010-11-12T16:41:00.000-05:00

AN IMAGINARY TRIP AROUND THE WORLD WITH LORI BURKE

The Tarmac sighed at JFK, relieved of the weight
of another jet plane, and we were off: the air so deep blue
I was sure we were astronauts in space.

We splashed down in the wet streets of London;
the fog found us in a fine embrace, and the damp air masked
the sweat of my hands. The world was quickly getting older.

In Paris I blinked and you were gone; it was a mystery.
Unfortunately, so was my French. But I found you
at the Louvre, and I helped pitch your tent
so you could stay as long as you liked. And you did.

Horus and Anubis awaited us in Egypt,
but an Anatolian tide drifted us East across the Mediterranean,
where we got sidetracked while swimming with the Cypriots.

We sheepishly snuck through the Suez,
and the crocodiles of the Nile clapped their jaws together
in recognition of your beauty.

Up through the former Republics we pushed,
from Copts to gypsies and Cossacks to Jews,
then you donned a burkha (and I did too!)
and we were anonymous sisters
as we snuck through the cradle of civilization.

We bumped toward the Orient on elephant-back in India,
shedding clothing as the subcontinent became increasingly tropical.

Then Angkor Wat, where our eyes widened,
and our tongues forked,
and you said "we're Western no more"
in a language we'd never heard,
but that we both somehow understood.

Hong Kong was all catamarans and baccarat
with my brother's fiancée's family.
Also: the sun reflected off the waters of the Pearl River Delta
and onto your naked feet.

South America was a blur unequalled;
suffice to say that Bogota will never be the same.

We smuggled ourselves across the border
in the back of a snowbird's motor home;
we both had changed beyond the recognition
of our US Customs Dept.

Our ancestral homeland the Gulf Coast would not forget us,
from mom and dad to the snakes and possums and pelicans,
but no one was as happy and as proud to see us
as our own private Brooklyn apartments.
Let's meet again next Tuesday to hatch our plan
to do it all over once more.

2010-10-07T14:39:00.001-04:00

Courtney & the Candy Corn Oblivion

When her neighbors left a bag
of candy corn on her doorknob
with a note that said "give thanks,"
she wondered if the sentence lacked
an object; it certainly could use a "please."

She made up her mind to give thanks
to her neighbors when she next saw them.
But through the afternoon, her mind's imagination
skipped ahead of her -- would her thanks
require more thanks? She didn't
really know her neighbors.

Soon her mind's home was bursting
with candy corn; when she opened
her door it spilled on to the lawn;
it filled her car trunk -- no room
left for her golf clubs.

Now she eyes her neighbors suspiciously;
she likes the idea of candy corn
way more than she likes candy corn
anyway; one bag will do, thank you.

2010-09-01T00:35:00.001-04:00

RESPECT CYRIL

The Eastern Long Island
Pipes and Drums Corps
will tell you: Respect Cyril.

On Highway 27 in August,
we could almost hear Cyril
(or was it the wind?) saying
"respect the sarrronnng."

But while we disrespected ourselves
with some BBCs that afternoon
it occurred to me:

the flotsam of summer life
out from the City
could only disrespect Cyril
in the way that the tide
disrespects the shoreline
or the waves
disrespect the sea:

sooner or later summer's done
and Cyril says "see ya later"
to the respectful
and the disrespectful alike.

And, after four point
six five BBCs,
when we were sure
no one else could see,
the magic eight ball
atop his cane
winked knowingly.

2010-08-18T09:17:00.003-04:00

Our friend Matt Longabucco is rocking his way through this awesome project where he writes poems about movies. Every movie showing at the Pavilion this year. It's fun to read about the movies I've seen. It's fun to read about the movies I haven't seen.

for GP-F

2010-08-12T15:53:00.002-04:00

THE SHEIK OF AMAGANSETT & HIS FIRST MATE SVEN AT REST

When the piracy is done,
we find ourselves at rest,
and none of the low moral condition
of our profession applies to our play.

Oh my Sheik, your orders are my command,
and when our ransacking is done,
the end of this island is our deck,
and a longneck is my sword.

2010-08-03T01:43:00.001-04:00

Unlike the Shafer Hall you know and love, the other Shafer Hall stays within himself. Where I so rarely can be found.

Poem #3 to Accompany Stills from the Film Semi-Tough

2010-07-29T06:30:00.002-04:00

WHAT THE TEQUILA TOLD US

First it reminded us: with it we shall not reckon.

Then it made us think everything would be OK.

Then it made us feel impossibly awesome.

Then we were 100% sure that what turned out to be the floor of our
taxi was the roof.

Then the great hordes found a way to jive, if only for a few seconds.

We thought for a moment about a herd of moose in response to a cavalry.

Then it told us good night.

Poem #2 to Accompany Stills from the Film Semi-Tough

2010-07-27T08:57:00.003-04:00

WHERE WE FOUND IT

Just when we had nearly forgotten
what we were looking for of course
was when we found it; we found it
in the pits of our knees and elbows;
it was in the misshapen snarl of our noses
as we sniffed for it.

Now that we have it, we can begin
to wonder what we will do with it;
like youth we will probably waste it;
like instinct or passion or fear
we may feel we have not used it
but have been used by it.

In our high & low search for it
came the most tangible benefits of it:
the stretching of our bones;
the tug of gravity on our bellies.

Poem #1 to Accompany Stills from the Film Semi-Tough

2010-07-23T21:42:00.000-04:00

SMILE

What to do when
the marquis is full
of names you have forgotten
or never even remembered?

When the sunlight
of celebrity has you squinting,
thank your dentist --
he has taught you
so many things.

But is there a gift
or a retort finer
than a smile?

2010-07-15T15:26:00.001-04:00

YOUTH BECAME

Confident uncertainty
so slowly became confusion;
I don't think we noticed
even while we lengthily
and even eloquently mentioned
it in our poems and songs.

Now our pride is all we have
to keep us going, our finely-tuned
interests in ourselves and each other.

The starlight shines most brightly
inside the club; out underneath
the bridge, the night keeps getting darker.

2010-06-10T00:04:00.001-04:00

On 77 South, my brother-in-law
and I navigated from town to town
through the Rio Grande Valley.
The girls in the back with the baby
sang along from Willie Nelson song
to Willie Nelson song, and I wondered
why at night we never stay up
thinking about the things we do right.

But when the sun went down
the back seat went to sleep,
and the front seat did the singing.
By the time we hit Highway 100,
I was thinking about a redhead
from Hereford who I once knew
and wondering what we'd be today.

Tomorrow we'll go fishing;
I'll make invisible homes till sunrise.

2010-04-08T17:09:00.000-04:00

Rachael exhaled into a big round symbol
of rebirth, and when our egg skips
across the green grass of the park,
and when evening falls like candy,
and when the blood veins
in our drunken faces start to pop
like cascarones, Spring begins
and our later-ons and remember-whens
become right now.

2010-04-08T15:16:00.000-04:00

You were the luckiest
dirty green floor
on Easter Sunday
in the world
when she walked by
on Sunday. Sunday
checked in white
and green, wooden
heels clicking, and
(where is my head?)
at the top of the stairs:
one last party, and
goodnight.

My Love Is Like The Springtime

2010-04-04T13:09:00.000-04:00

My love is like a freight train baby.
Ride it so slow.

My love is like a brick wall baby.
Come bang yourself up against it.

My love is like the subway baby.
It don't always run the way it should.

My love is like the springtime baby.
Red flowers poppin' up all over the place.

My love is like the export soda crackers baby.
100% vegetable oil.

My love is like a three-hundred pound heavyweight boxer baby.

It's gettin' all up inside your face.

2010-03-20T02:36:00.000-04:00

She asked me if I'd been to war.
"Yes my little drink of water."
I lied -- or told a riddle. My name
is Robertson Robertson, Brigadier
General. She asked me would I
like a drink. "Yes my little drink
of water. I lied before. I've never
been to war." She asked me
if my name is Robertson. "Yes
my little drink of water." Do you
like whiskey. "Yes my little drink
of water." I'm tried and tired
she said, I'm trying to close.
Will you please order already?
"Yes my little drink of water."

Two Important Items of Poetry Administration

2010-03-05T13:29:00.004-05:00

This cool new poetry press is kicking off their line with two of my favorite poets in the world. I just pre-ordered both titles at a reduced price. So should you!

Also, check out this profile of your favorite poet on Open Letters!

2010-02-26T06:54:00.000-05:00

GOOD MORNING DARLING

Some folks across the street decided
at 1:30 AM to scream bloody murder.

Since then I have contemplated
the nature (qualified)
and the extent (limited)
of my love for my fellow man.

It is fuck-all snowing outside.
Here are some pictures. But
I guess if you are reading this,
you have already seen it.

I happily look forward to tonight
when I will see you again.
If I should fall asleep, please
prop me up with a broom handle,
a glass of tequila in my hand.

2010-02-25T06:56:00.000-05:00

HOURLY

hour by hour
the cold dawn rises

the sky gray and white
as the inside of a wedding tent

the wind passes over the sill --
a face in the crowd mistaken for familiar

and we lack nothing
but good health and inspiration

myopic as well-fed pets
pale as a lady's arm outstretched in supplication

2010-01-22T03:33:00.002-05:00

COWBOY FANTASY

Mullet tweaked and frosted
in the whitewashed fluorescence
of a midnight parking lot:
what mysterious reptile skin
makes your boots
in your cowboy fantasy?

Count the clinks of your spurs.
Waiting for the bus, you absently
make your finger bleed.

On the way home, you sneer
at your reflection in the window.
You will sleep, but your restless
cowboy fantasy will not:
lassos made of sheets.

2010-01-01T16:44:00.001-05:00

THERE'S NOTHING SWEET ABOUT AGUA DULCE

since Charlie left for Austin. Three buzzards sit on top of a billboard advertising social services for pregnant teens. Tires skid on the gravel of a highway crossover as a snowbird jacknifes his recreational rig. A state trooper pings his radar off the hood of my car, but nothing moves quickly in Agua Dulce. Sarita and Ricardo and Alice huddle around Agua Dulce, each comfort as small as the towns themselves. Mesquite and prickly pear abuse geometry from the ground up then spread maddeningly in every direction. A concrete cistern breaks the coastal plain. A green sign makes the salty grass look more brown. Next rest stop 60 miles. Away, Charlie doesn't bother telling people where he's from. He doesn't say Agua Dulce or even Alice or "the shallow valley called Rio Grande." He just says "down South."

2009-11-20T06:18:00.001-05:00

THE GREATEST LOVE STORY EVER TOLD

In a recent hayloft on an October afternoon,
a great love story was dictated
from a tattoed arm to a knife
to a massive pork.

At the time, I was determined
not to have a good time, but
as we slid from tenderloin
to shoulder and deep into
sowbelly, I stopped trying
to recall the plot of part two
of the film Short Circuit.

I soon was slaved into captivity
by Bryan's intimate relationship
with our ex-ungulate. Life
and food found me, and I was lost
in a butcher's love for the butched.

In time the sundered sow
would slowly roast into a meal,
but in this moment in the middle
I learned about a man -- Bryan
the butcher, and his passion
twisted my eyes awake
into a moment from which
they remain unclosed.

2009-11-19T02:36:00.000-05:00

THE TYLER SAY

The Tyler say: tonight
is to much for me today:
good night afternoon,
good night today,
good night young ladies
& the pork who made us
sway like thieves into
the raspberry yard:
the fire looks so pink today.

2009-11-19T02:26:00.000-05:00

WHAT THE TYLER SAY

The Tyler say a Saturday
night in New York is just
a Wednesday night in Brooklyn,
and as the night slides
right past twelve, who are you
to disagree: the Tyler would
say that you are a fine
a friend to find on the curling
surge toward the weekend.

Good night, friend. Tyler say
he'll see you Saturday
for cinnamon, shrimp & raisins.

2009-11-14T05:48:00.000-05:00

FRIDAY THIRTEEN

Frightened of Friday
no more, for (from now on)
Friday the thirteenth
will be frightened of us.

2009-11-11T16:36:00.000-05:00

WHAT THE COCO KNOWS

Photos don't show what the Coco knows,
and the green grass will not tell a soul.
The glow in the fire lends to us a clue:
where once there was nothing,
here is something warm.

But when the hamhock went begging
was when Coco really started to shine.
From our haylined trench we waited
from dispatch to dispatch from the Coco front.

And Coco's intelligence arrived in code:
this is tasty. This is warm.
This is something else
Coco would like for you to know.

2009-11-10T15:48:00.000-05:00

GOOD NIGHT GALS

In the middle of the afternoon,
Amanda and Becky said goodnight,
and while the dogs and farmers
kept watch, the girls slept,
the fire burned, the fat rendered,
and the massive ewe bleated
down the road. Just another night
Upstate, in the middle of the afternoon.

2009-11-10T12:38:00.000-05:00

Old cold Brooklyn:
my skin will be made
of blankets now for months.

2009-11-08T07:23:00.001-05:00

& THIS JUST IN:

out there on the edge
of the photo is where
the news breaks: I'll
say hello to you (and
high five you) in this
cursory fashion. And
over rapidly will go
this notion: Sunday
morning (looking
fine) while taking
a long look back
at Friday (where
started our minds.)

2009-11-05T05:16:00.000-05:00

PRIMARY COLORS & CARPENTRY:
A PRIMER

Carpenters know that carpentry
is primarily colored in yellows & greens:
witness the wild greenish-yellow
in which floats the level's bubble,
and you will start to see what they mean.

Clothes do not make the carpenter,
but a yellow flower makes the clothes,
and an Amanda around is handy
when you're screwing yourself back together
not so long after you've tied one on.

2009-11-04T15:54:00.000-05:00

WHAT HAPPENED ON HALLOWEEN?

Hairy fruit is twining its way
up twisted twigs along the horrifying
Hudson; and tonight all eyes
are on the Catskills foothills
where the spirits of Henry's
mutinous crew may return tonight
to tweak with midnight piglike sprites.

Meantime our bottles of bourbon
seem to be drinking themselves
while our mouths mutter prayers
while the gibbous moon waxes,
and tomorrow our minds
will just barely remember.

2009-11-02T16:41:00.000-05:00

Coco isn't sorry
she ate the pig
you left in the hole
beneath all those coals.

It was delicious,
so warm and tender
on a Saturday so cold.

Now only this tail
tells the story of the hog
who in this mud once rolled.

2009-11-02T16:32:00.000-05:00

ONE MORE DAY WITH COCO

Soft rain yielded
to the red Mercedes
Saturday on the high Hudson.

Coco told me
where I was going.
I was mildly astonished.

We were hanging out
with the hanging pigs
in the hayloft
before the coffee was cold.

Coco, tell me everything
you know: about your
revolutionary cigarette
and dry boots for my toes.

Little Sister

2009-10-24T22:55:00.000-04:00

Little sister,
I love you
like a flower
growing out
of my head.

2009-10-10T17:13:00.000-04:00

Thirty-four,
and I still like
dinosaurs,
astronauts,
fire engines,
Danny White,
and the way
the world looks
through the window screen,
and I still can hardly stand
to say goodbye.

Joe's Toes

2009-10-02T22:52:00.000-04:00

Joe's toes
are prowling
around San Francisco.

Maybe your eyes
will see them, if
you aim them low.

There's an

2009-10-02T02:15:00.001-04:00

owl hooting in the backyard.

And a big buck eating

the flowers we planted.

I love this place!!

Even though the owl kinda keeps

me and Jake awake, and we

paid good money for those damn plants....

I think sycamores are my favorite trees.

I love thinking about them at Kriterion.

They had those seed balls you could squish.

I am already planning a trip

for me and Coy this summer to Vegas,

I'm hoping mom will watch [your nephew.]

If not Jake, will have to.

2009-09-30T03:31:00.002-04:00

There's a bum

singing "Gotta Get

You Into My Life"

as he cruises

up my block ahead

of his massive flotilla

of shopping carts.

He loves me

more today

than yesterday,

but not as much

as tomorrow.

2009-09-29T12:15:00.000-04:00

An ocean of sycamore
leaves is breaking
on my bedroom window,
here -- morning's last moan
as the minute hand
ticks up toward twelve.

At noontime, to "laze"
becomes to "languish,"
so, to keep appearances afloat,
I will write a poem.
Let no one think me languishy.

And, when I've squeezed
into Tuesday evening,
and we are saying "so long"
to Sybil, my sycamores
will sweetly swish till my return,
when they will suspirate me
once more to sleep.

OTB

2009-09-26T16:44:00.002-04:00

Essex and Delancey

on Saturday morning,

and the degenerates

are sniffing me --

I might be a cop;

and the cops

are sniffing at me --

I might be a degenerate.

Duck into the OTB

where everyone's looking

for the stub of a pencil.

Until we're winners or losers,

we're all the same here.

But now the big lady

behind the bullet-proof glass

is yelling at me;

these multi-race exotic

cards make no sense to me.

What the Window Can Tell Us

2009-09-25T12:23:00.001-04:00

Woe is the window. Thin as an eyelid.

Think of it: it is maybe more there

in your mind than it is here, in between us

and the street. A wash with a wet rag

and it is gone. An outstretched arm

and it is back again.

How comfortable is your house?

Are you safe enough inside to fear

the outside? We cannot be protected

unless there is danger, otherwise

we just are. I fear the world,

so I do not have to fear in here.

When the window winks

with the light of dawn, I will rise

and remove myself from my handy home;

my conveniences will wait for me.

The liquid glass in my window

will sag historically.

Four Faced Liar Three AM

2009-09-25T12:16:00.000-04:00

SHAFER: What's your name, buddy?
ROCKY: (shaking hands) Rocky. What's yours?
SHAFER: I'm Shafer. Like the beer.
ROCKY: So do I.

'Twas the night before BCMF

2009-09-17T12:21:00.004-04:00

Sing a song of six-gun,

a pocket full of hair.

If you hope to survive the night,

you'd better learn to swear:

"Play some fuckin' country!"

and scam another pie --

most of us have done this before.

The Guns have done it thrice.

Gather round us kiddos,

we'll keep you safe and warm;

slide the strings of a Telecaster guitar

and mind the swinging arms.

2009-08-16T16:27:00.002-04:00

THIS TRAIN'S BOUND FOR SOMETHING...

By Sam Mastandrea

We met on the Q train around 2 a.m.

She was beyond beautiful,
my kind of beautiful…
could've been Bianca Jagger's sister.

I got the feeling
the reason she sidled up next to me
was solely for protective,
not romantic, purposes.

We started a discussion about
old black and white movies.

She said she would've walked Gregory Peck's dog through a minefield.

I told her I would've had Rita Hayworth's baby.
In fact, my first born child
will be named Rita,
even if it's a boy.

I could tell she admired my dedication.

Next we discussed deal makers and deal breakers
for potential dates/mates.

I pointed to a Budweiser advertisement
with some ripped blonde surfer-type and asked,
"What about him?"

She said, "It's hard to tell because I can turn off the sexy."

"Turn off the sexy?"

"Yeah, I can just ignore the six-pack abs,
the Hollywood smile, the chiseled jaw line
and that mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

I can nullify the physical
so my attraction to him would
be based purely on his actions, emotions,
and thoughts."

I told her I admired her stance
in regard to transcending the physical.

It seemed like a noble and realistic approach.

She wrote down her phone number
on my palm with an eyeliner pencil -

then she steamrolled through
a twenty minute diatribe
about some scientist in Germany
who had grafted Walt Disney's frozen head
onto Eva Braun's body and
the result was
a new ambisextrous UberGod
who would judge
the living and the dead
and its kingdom would have no end.

I decided to get off a few stops early.

I woke up the next afternoon
with a slightly smeared,
yet legible,
phone number on my palm.

She answered after the third ring.

"I'm surprised to hear from you!

Especially after you
called me a 'friggin' deranged crackpot
before you got off the train."

"Yeah, well I guess
I just can't
turn off
the sexy
like you can."

2009-08-08T05:40:00.000-04:00

Screw yourself
into the Northwest corner
of your bed so
that most of the weight
from your body
rests on your heart:
now, you know,
you have a heart,
and each dog's hand
you shake will tick --
your immune system
staying near & deer.

Midwesterly

2009-07-26T04:17:00.004-04:00

The magnetic power of Minneapolis is well-documented

in the scientific community. *Ahem,* ladies and gentlemen,

how many of us have awakened to find our bodies flat on our backs

while our minds are away up on the upper Mississip;

even when gravity attacks, and our spines get out of whack,

our brains still browse the Ax-Man looking for a project to attack.

Who is so strong to resist these limbless plastic baby bodies?

These 95 cent plectra? These rows of motors alternating

with alternators? We will meet in the afternoon of the out-

of-body, together again for minutes.

And when we scientific minds wake up, our theories

will be strong, but all that Midwestern mystery will remain:

such a fine secret to share with everyone; there

at the center of the continent, with eyes full of beer,

I’ll see you again next night’s rabbit or afternoon tap.

Good Night Sun

2009-07-09T02:20:00.000-04:00

Good evening. Even
with the Sun so low,
the night still slips
down our hips. And
I will see you inside;
once this spell is
busted, we will slide
into a reverent circle:
I'll catch you flipping
for an innocent edge
on the other side.

Give Me A Call Some Time

2009-05-30T17:43:00.001-04:00

I'll be on the phone,
and all you'll hear is
boop boop boop boop,
so you'll hang up
and hit the road.

I'll have missed you
today, but catch me
tomorrow -- we all know
where to find each other
in this good old world.

We'll be all over each other
from the wooden tables
outside Crown and Anchor
to down by the stream
in the summertime.

An Old Photo of Today

2009-05-24T02:10:00.000-04:00

Much older than today are my friends
in a photo I took tonight, but tonight
when the hours grow long, and the music
we used to love lazes long in measure.

Older than the music are the couples
who tonight will find fine Atlantic air
meets the places where they sleep,
where the cold air meets their quiet lungs.

Tomorrow the scene will be newer,
but we'll be a few hours older than tonight.

Give Me a Call Sometime

2009-05-24T01:28:00.003-04:00

It will be way away
in that future when
everything burns too bright:
a call to arms is still
a call; call to see
what's our next move:
make a coded call
for future action, or
cool off and call in the morning.

The Finger

2009-05-24T00:51:00.001-04:00

Midnight: Coastal Connecticut,
and Lucas finds the finger.

The corners of the porch define
our borders;

on Monday our Holiday Road
will take us home,

but tonight the Sound is sweet.
Montauk waits quietly across the water.

Tonight's the middle of the party,
for which Lucas has found a finger.

Give Me A Call Sometime

2009-05-23T11:08:00.002-04:00

It will be 1979, and I will be king
of all the thin brown carpet
that I can see; all three feet of me
moving top speed down the stairs
to explore the wide cosmos of the courtyard.

Call me because never again
will I be as available as I am now
to talk about imaginary magic seeds
called "sesame."

Call me and maybe we'll hit the street;
take the cat down to Winn's
for a comic book, and when we're home,
I'll tell you how to get to Houston,
Left on I-10 and go straight.

NaPoWriMo 04/30/09

2009-05-03T14:33:00.001-04:00

HELLO DENVER

Hello Denver,
you might be glad to know
this is still your town to me
in so many ways.

Two years later,
you still find funny ways
to pop up -- in a night out,
in a back room.

I am happy to report
that two years later
a late-night robot
can make me smile.

NaPoWriMo 04/29/09

2009-05-03T14:26:00.001-04:00

BEWARE THE FUNNY HAT

Be wary of the funny hat
late at night on the streets of Brooklyn
when any amount of attention
is unwanted: our anonymity
is our best friend tonight;
it is different from hours ago
when all eyes were on you;
you were a star.

It is right to move from constellation
to bandit and back again,
our unknownness is our time
to do the little things: to move
from one place to another,
to play a game, to eat some chips.

Tomorrow we'll feel like
we've gotten away with something
if only tonight we get away with it.

NaPoWriMo 04/28/09

2009-04-28T15:48:00.000-04:00

THE REALITY OF OUR SISTER GRACE

Our sister Grace is not,
strictly speaking, our sister:
we found her one night
in a Corpus Christi bus station;
she was fully formed
as if hatched from an egg.

My brother Dick and I
knew we HAD to have her,
so beautiful and wild!

But if course
she wasn't our decision,
she followed us home,
she felt right beside us,
as if she'd been there
the whole time.

Our parents knew it too;
there was no "can we keep her
PLLEEEASE," it was just
"hello Grace, welcome home."

NaPoWriMo 04/27/09

2009-04-28T15:08:00.001-04:00

SAXOPHONE SOUNDS

Hello Saturday, hear
my saxophone sounds,
our bleat-bop style is fly
on the wall of this truck,
I'll make this alley mine.

NaPoWriMo 04/26/09

2009-04-28T15:02:00.001-04:00

PINK HEAVY

Oppressive Spring
is upon me, branches bent
with heavy pink beauty.

We are slowing down
beneath the trees,
bony December far away.

NaPoWriMo 04/25/09

2009-04-25T19:23:00.000-04:00

sucking on a beer:
John Cotter from New England
happy Spring indeed

NaPoWriMo 04/24/09

2009-04-24T14:22:00.001-04:00

MY NEON II

An orange-red radar beeps
in the darkness -- my night vision
blurrrs a halo onto every corner;
an insectine chirr catches my ear:
a sign pops into my sight,
and so begins my Friday night.

NaPoWriMo 04/23/09

2009-04-24T13:38:00.001-04:00

MY NEON

Neon is not always neon;
electricity arcs to excite
other noble gases
to make light and color:
orange-red for neon,
blue for argon (with mercury)
and xenon is purple-white.

But fluorescents can be deceitful,
do not look to these signs
for noble gases; look for
"dinner," or look for "subway."

NaPoWriMo 04/22/09

2009-04-23T12:58:00.001-04:00

FROM WHERE POEMS COME

From where do poems come?
Last night John Wieners' voice
leaked out of the internet
and into my ears. Did that poem
come from John Wieners,
or did it come from the internet?
Paul Killebrew sent me the link;
there is abundant evidence
that poems come from Paul.
And are there poems
without my ears and eyes?

A blueprint for poetry:
John --> internet --> Paul
--> eyes --> ears

NaPoWriMo 04/21/09

2009-04-22T00:31:00.001-04:00

A PURPLE HOUSE PERSON

This is my purple house
where I talk to birds -- hey
bird! and where I talk
to plants -- hey plant!

My lady is asleep upstairs;
she is an uncommon girl
with whom I have a common
relationship: it's amazing
the things you can do
with a cell phone.

When she awakes,
we will walk from our purple
house out into the green
world. Our love is law;
our rituals are old
and well-tested.

NaPoWriMo 04/20/09

2009-04-21T05:03:00.001-04:00

GOOD EVENING SUNSHINE

Long after happy hour,
our smiles remain here
where the friendly folks
congregate, on the
North side of Monday,
on the South side
of Manhattan, on the
wooden side of the bar.

Sink side, Shafer's working,
and his eyes are so thankful
when we help him
take the trash out,
or bus some tables.

Shafer growls, Teejay
smiles, and we all remain
through the evening,
long after happy hour.

NaPoWriMo 03/20/09

2009-04-21T03:57:00.000-04:00

GOOD EVENING SUNSHINE

Happy hour's come and gone,
but still there are smiles
near the bar where good folks gather.

Later we won't even remember
tonight -- it was just like any other
-- a pileup of dozens of smiles.

Tomorrow comes another happy hour
and the same old mouth
will break into a brand new smile.

NaPoWriMo 04/19/09

2009-04-20T21:13:00.001-04:00

THE WILDEST CAT IN KANSAS

Oh great ounces
of bourbon, oh
wild cat of
The Great Plains,
your name is known
from Manhattan, KS
to Manhattan, NY.

Our love for you
is near as the burn
of whiskey in the backs
of our throats.

Keep yourself safe
and wing it back to Brooklyn
to us and to the bottle
we will keep safe for you.

NaPoWriMo 04/18/09

2009-04-20T20:44:00.002-04:00

AS THE CROW SMILES

Aurorites unite
behind the firm front
of Brendan and Tracey:
thank them for
a nurturing mother
ship to dry off
when we're logged
with rain and to cool
off when we're dry.

And seventeen issues
from now, may your smiles
still be finely flecked with crow.

NaPoWriMo 04/17/09

2009-04-18T02:03:00.002-04:00

THEORY OF FORMS: MONKEY LAMP

I light, and therefore I am Monkey Lamp,
and back here in the shadows in the back
of Jamison's bar, that which I illuminate
is often all that is; when Jamison
clicks me off, there is nothing, and
I am Monkey Lamp no more.

[click] Monkey Lamp [click]
not Monkey Lamp [click]
Hey there are two people
making out on the "leather"
couch; that is too much
for my Monkey Lamp eyes [click]

No daylight filters back
into my little Monkey Lamp room,
but Jamison sometimes sits
and tells me of the big world
out there, a world with as many
lights as there are monkeys [click]
Monkey Lamp [click] no Monkey Lamp

NaPoWriMo 04/16/09

2009-04-16T22:53:00.002-04:00

BROOKLYN DAWN

Dawn's rosy fingers touched
my Clifton Place this morning;
my feet were all over the street
and the stoplight kept us all safe.

I traced a path to the corner store

to search for grapefruit soda,
I tried to tell the fellas there
about a drink called Ting.

But our English wasn't enough
for us, we agreed to give it up;
I said "go Mets," and he said
"ayyyy," and home went
my Gatorade and I.

NaPoWriMo 04/15/09

2009-04-15T21:59:00.003-04:00

LOVE TO BURN

America lives out West
in western Wisconsin --
"the Land of Trees Touching"
to the natives.

Power is plentiful here,
so our extension chords
are curled up on bumpers
decorating our purple buses.

The snow is a museum;
come inside where it is warm.
We will show you our animals,
our drinks, and our guitars.

Later on, someone's target
practice might tear up
the evening, but for now
our boots are freezing on the hood.

You can decide on your own
omens when the bus begins
to move again; tell us
what it tells you -- if it burns.

NaPoWriMo 04/14/09

2009-04-14T14:55:00.001-04:00

Big confetti busts
out above West Fourth; April's
cruel chill continues.

NaPoWriMo 04/13/09

2009-04-14T00:21:00.005-04:00

WHEN SPARKS FLY

When materials oxidize and react to make fire, it's chemistry
And we stop hiding behind our collars and our beers
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

Let's meet down at Coney to forget the week's perfidy
And to find someone fine who later we'll fear
When materials oxidize and react to make fire, it's chemistry

The whine of her grinder is an aggressive sort of prosody
And I find myself drawn nearer and near
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

Toward stammering salutations her performance is prodding me
I'll break the spell of her headlight on my deer
When materials oxidize to make fire, it's chemistry

It's a bit of late night intoxicated trickery
My odd combination of bravura and cheer
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

I've never quite learned what behavior is worst for me
I can't quite say how I came to wake up here
When materials oxidize and react to make fire, it's chemistry
When sparks fly on Friday night, it's called electricity

NaPoWriMo 04/12/09

2009-04-12T00:42:00.001-04:00

MIDNIGHT CONEY ISLAND AVENUE

Saturday skips across midnight
and here we are: I miss Mark's
porch, but it's one good night
at a time: good night Coney
Island Avenue: good night
Old Carriage Inn: what will
the East Side say when we
say "Hello?"

NaPoWriMo 04/11/09

2009-04-11T18:48:00.001-04:00

SUNSET: PROSPECT PARK
(END OF THE LINE: MARK REILLY)

Prospect Park is on golden fire
through the tint of my Cadillac
in conveyance to Mark Reilly
on his birthday: what apocalypse
harbinges Ocean Avenue,
so cool & slick on this Saturday night:
the pointed roofs of Windsor Park
poke menacingly at the evening:
a police escort with "birthday boy"
written on its armored fender.

NaPoWriMo 04/10/09

2009-04-11T18:30:00.002-04:00

DEE DEE RAMONE: TEXAS AGGIE

Oh magnificent Seventies,
when golden tones fudged
at the edges of our senses
and dinosaur punk rock
agriculturalists roamed the land.

A Dee Dee was a Texas Aggie
was a black shirt was a guitar
strap dangling a slicktastic bass.

My one-year-old mind
was textured with thumps
but now it's smooth and slick
from Queens, NY to College Station.

NaPoWriMo 04/09/09

2009-04-09T22:01:00.002-04:00

Uncle Charlie

Uncle Charlie sits at the back of our brains,
a Phil Spector haunting our memory
from the wall where he is projected
with his funny and menacing gun.

Some of us, this is all we have
of Uncle Charlie. We have Uncle Charlie
and a curtain of brunette hair brushing
the air, hiding what may be a smile.

A cigarette and a beer round out
our inventory: a cigarette and a beer
and a faded denim atmosphere
producing mystery, fun, and fear.

That's all the camera tells us,
and maybe that's all Uncle Charlie
wanted us to know: as his picture says,
he has ways of making us not talk.

NaPoWriMo 04/08/09

2009-04-08T11:54:00.002-04:00

Nighttime at Nye's Polonoaise

Night has fallen on Minneapolis,
and down at Nye's Polonoaise
the piano is starting to clink.

A lonely gal in a pretty pink
headband is crossing her legs
and drinking a rum & Coke.

Put yourself in the picture:
pick your favorite drink.
Sit down close by.

Outside it's snowing,
but in here the leaden,
colored glass is warm.

Wait from song to song
for a song you know, a song
to take you home.

Then that gal kisses
the microphone, and chirps
"take the ribbon from your hair."

Oh, skinny northern Mississippi
River, Southern boys
get so cold up here.

But maybe a pretty
Twin City lady
will give us a place to stay.

NaPoWriMo 04/07/09

2009-04-07T16:13:00.003-04:00

Bobbie the Three-Legged Pit Bull

Bobbie the three-legged pit bull
arcs across the concrete:
a comma made of muscle
pausing in the breeze
on the porch in the afternoon.

Bobbie stretches out a leg,
and she becomes an apostrophe:
possessive of everything
the Spring smells help her see.

Later on, Bobbie will be a period:
ending the day at the foot of dad's bed,
curled up on top of mom's feet.

NaPoWriMo 04/06/09

2009-04-06T11:15:00.002-04:00

Sunset & Vine

The sun is going down
down in Texas, while
the vines are growing up.

The human fact
of a powerline moves
horizonwise across the sky,
man and plant in tandem
defying gravity.

Here on the ground,
I can feel my feet,
but my intoxicated head
is up there among the leaves.

My camera and my eyes work together
to keep us there for our version of forever.

NaPoWriMo 04/05/09

2009-04-05T13:03:00.002-04:00

Born Raised

The raised marks on my skin
show me home: a map is a memory,
and my marks are equally for my mind
and for yours. Find me on my skin:
Texas is to the right of a stray freckle;
you are here: don't forget, but if you do,
I'll remember for you.

NaPoWriMo 04/04/09

2009-04-05T12:53:00.002-04:00

Eggs

Intrepid egg hunter
and cousin Ollie
discovered a number
of eggs today.

It is a banner day
for egg hunterology.

In his right hand
is a stegosaurus egg.

In his left is the egg
of the dreaded eggeater.

Watch out stegosaurus!

NaPoWriMo 04/03/09

2009-04-03T09:25:00.002-04:00

Central Avenue 3AM

The rain slicked the streets
of Albany last night
as we were stealing home
up Central Avenue.

The Continental Fried
stared quietly toward the Northwest;
its flat neon lights
had been extinguished for hours.

We were free and radical,
separating and bumping into
each other while the atom
of our collective intoxication decayed.

From hours away, this
is all I see: a lonely building
allowing itself a little sentimentality.
Let's take it with us next time.

NaPoWriMo: All Smarties' Day

2009-04-02T07:25:00.002-04:00

Storm Night

The iron gate
at the bottom
of the stoop
is whanging
ominously.

The demons
are quivering
inside the popcorn.

Mark Wahlberg
is glowing
unnaturally on the TV.

The wind is moaning
through the apartment
skeleton across the way;
canvas and plastic
construction materials
pop like bullwhips.

Kill another coffee.
Pass the cream.
Call your little sister.

NaPoWriMo Two Oh Oh Nine!

2009-04-01T16:59:00.003-04:00

Candor

A twisted hometown
is knotted up
over a dead Canadian:

the candor of his neighbors
echos off the supermarket tile
into his mother's ears,

and down here
we're talking openly
about the way he lived,

some of us know,
some can't imagine,
but we all shake our heads:

what a shame, what a
waste, what's the latest
from your hometown?