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.

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.

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.

FRIDAY THIRTEEN

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

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.

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.

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

& 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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.