Friday, November 23, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Veterans Day
He was drafted
a hot prospect
by the Giants in ‘67
infantryman
by the Army in ‘68
Somewhere north
of the
pitching for Charlie Company
with the bases loaded
he blew out his
mind.
Today
no dugouts or bullpens
in this ward of word slobber
He stands bent
starring home
through Eastwood eyes
waiting for a sign.
Dust dancing
in the sunlight
like confetti
from the world series
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
L’amoureux
Fortune teller
layered in loose
Roma silk
Long fingers turn
“The Lovers”
up
on black
satin.
Glass beads
dangle down
breasts tattooed
the color of age.
Dance your
gypsy prism
of circling
red silk
caressing
the curves.
Cast your
gypsy eyes
slowly
seeking
sacred seduction.
Myth of
candle light
your
spell
plays
out.
Emma
barn-wood face
faded print dress
over a hunched frame
knee-hose rolled
watches tourists
tying down
genuine Amish buggy wheels.
“Now they’ll go stick ‘em
in the ground,” she tells me.
“Somedays it’s better than
a picture show.”
Hilton Translations
Your palace last
night in vodka
dreams
pretending I was
The
You
the virgin princess
dark hair spilling
over the edge,
translating sonnets
on satin sheets.
In old darkness
I leave you
hating hotel rooms
while spending your lifetime
trying
to get the words
right.
Hamburger Cemetery
HAMBURGER CEMETERY
So the wind won’t blow it all away
--Richard Brautigan
Richard,
do you know
that Please Plant This Book
Goes for $1500 on
Amazon…
You
gave it away for free.
Critics said someday everyone
would be writing Brautigans
that Brautigan is good for you.
You should be trout fishing
in
casting broken
marriages
in Rembrandt Creek
still tying wet flies
& dry flies
together with metaphors
similes.
You should have bought
a hamburger from Baudelaire
at
that day
versus
the .44 shells and bottle
of Jack Black left
in dead
darkness.
I wish you had been
hungry instead
for a hamburger
in that October god-damn
god-damn.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
SLEEPING DOGS
white. Test patterns--
still frame westerns of
Tonto profiled on a target.
Back when Ol' Yeller died
every time, never changed.
Saturday afternoons,
Lassie came home to
lick Timmy's face,
it didn't matter.
Saturday afternoons
young boys cried...
Before Nam when Combat
made us backyard
soldiers,
killing krauts.
Red-faced boys
behind evergreens,
ratatat-tat.
"You're dead".
am not.
Back when Aunt Bea
made cherry cobbler
and Pa took Opie
fishin' at Miller's
Lake; skipping
rocks that rippled
out to sleeping
dogs on Saturday
afternoons
when young boys
cried,
wiped tears before
Dads could see.
JAMAICA FAREWELL
want. Repeated in structured form
like women taking off their clothes.
It could have been the moon
or Jamaican nights caught naked
by the beams through the thatch.
I know you tried but you weren't
the first to walk this sand
forgetting the reason you came.
Lizards watch, slip through
the floor, scratch Sestinas
on the beach.
Outside, blowfish die waiting
for the tide.