Clickable poem for the residents of The Distillery, who are fine poetry hosts in South Boston.

The Distillery

Dear Distillers,
you midnight gardeners,
thank you for the evening
guitars, thanks for all the
fine art, thanks for the
mighty ancient scale
that ticks off mysterious
Saturday night measures.

Six kids from Southie
drank beer on a street;
their nursery-rhymes
came to me cosmologically
as I watched from a window
in the Distillery:

big yellow scorpion truck
tricky stairstep backwards
golden sundown baked bricks
bulldog Boston boneyard

and then, the magic words spoken,
the night was over all too quickly.

Last night I dreamed of old brown women for whom impotence was euphemized to "canopy madness."

Canopy Madness

Usually your tent will pitch itself,
but when the madness strikes
late at night, and the canopy
has disappeared, close your
eyes and count the stars
on the back of your lids:
one is for you, two is for
your partner, three is for
the bed or sofa or floor,
four is for the stars themselves --
you can squeeze your eyelids so hard
and replace your canopy madness
with another madness; your tent
will be as wide as the night sky.

Mind You New England Soldiers:

I'll be reading in Boston next Saturday. I'll show you mine.

July 21st, 8PM
at The Distillery
516 East Second Street
South Boston, MA 02127
http://www.distilleryboston.com/

There will be a limited edition letterpressed broadside of my poem about librarians and sex available. If you don't know what all that stuff means, it's OK. I don't either.

Another poem about our teeth.

The Smell of My Teeth

My mouth is full of ghosts;
my infamous tongue
is covered in tastebuds;
my nose is generally insensitive.

A good set of teeth will never smell.

I have the forgotten mouth
of a mime this morning;
no tyranny will pass my lips
on the way in or on the way out.

Once I achieve the bathroom,
it will be all over
for whatever’s in there.

Man, my mouth is warm--
if we would believe the TV,
it’s like Vietnam in there.

Forensically, your teeth
will never misspell your name.

My mouth is like a little apartment
in my head; I clean it a little every day,
and it shines so gratefully.

Welcome Back!

Sorry we've been so far away! But we've brought you all the poetry and the pickin' that we've found!