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."
Hello Saturday, hear
my saxophone sounds,
our bleat-bop style is fly
on the wall of this truck,
I'll make this alley mine.
Oppressive Spring
is upon me, branches bent
with heavy pink beauty.
We are slowing down
beneath the trees,
bony December far away.
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.
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."
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
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.
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.
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.
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!
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?
