The Properties of Tacos

Don’t touch this taco, it is
the property of me. The primary
property of this taco (as far
as you’re concerned)
is that it is my property.

Some of the other properties
of this taco are: tastiness and
lettuce. Also “picante”
which is Spanish
for “spicy!”

What I'm Doing When I'm Not Writing Poetry

Some words just pop into my head whenever I come to a point in a poem when I have nothing to say but when something else still must be said. Sometimes these words manifest themselves in the poem, and sometimes I resist these words; I tell them there is no place in the poem for them. Some of these words are "taco," "teeth," "homuncular," and "and."

Freakish Deaths Are Rarely Forgotten

The long scarves of memory
wrap around we who have forgotten
what we never knew --
what the century was like
long before we were born;
we talk about the Twenties
as a time of twelve-hour nights,
when bisexuality was not uncommon
in Hollywood, before
American culture coded itself
into a comfortable corner.

We can remember almost anything,
and what’s the difference, really,
between remembering
and being told -- veracity
or deception are in both available.

So a long, delicate, handmade
scarf wrapped around you,
and I can see the beautiful day
and (what kind of car was it)
the Italian car.

And, when everything
got so freakishly twisted,
how the motor hummed, how
the silk spun, how
the pavement hit.
How do we know;
no one remembers anymore.
We’ve only been told.

From High Above the Surface of the Earth, Denver, CO

My old friend Taryn writes this impossibly cute blog about her new life in California with her husband Matt.

Matt is from South Boston and, until Denver, he had never lived anywhere but an apahtment. He had never had a place to pahk his cah. He had never even had a yahd!

Now he tears ass around the Rocky Mountains on his bicycle with his lovely lady.

Soon he'll even be pronouncing his Rs!

My Teeth & I

Porcelain plumbing sits quietly
in my apartment; outside,
the industrious are building
a building. My block is changing;
where there were fifty households,
there will be one hundred and fifty.

Five hundred or so will wake up
for work, while the five hundred
and first will sit thinking
about his own plumbing
and about all the potential porcelain
of the people around him.

The sky and the streets of Brooklyn
are gray. In between them
are invisible dotted lines.
This part is yours, and this part
is yours. This sink is mine,
so much brighter than my teeth.