Two

You’d think it would give me
some kind of kick
she said
misspelled
drinking imported cerveza
gold, light, cold
I’ve grown too used to it anyway

To what?
I said
from the other side
of nowhere
whalebone lamp blocking
my view

And she only stared
never quite there
discussing flamboyant hairdressers
she’d seen in a city
nameless

There’s a man in the corner!
she screamed
the emphasis added later
pointing at the chair left in shadows
seat worn
faded floral embroidery

Yes
I said
my eyes on her eyes
my hands reaching for
her face

And there was Miles Davis
coming out real low
two rhythms wound and unwound

August

The walls are socked in
dull white paint
and sullen blue-eyed boys
stare back and back
at the reflection in the back
smiling

to sleep
to dream

So many bicycles against the wall
each painted in chromium waste
spotless
and bleed
and so many words to lean upon
and on
the divided door
carving out a different name

I lay my body on the grass
too green
and clean
sticking
and itching
stuck on hairy legs

the spider prances
down and down
long-legged dancer
the spider falls
down and down
drowning in the rain

So just pass on
on and into the clouded sky
a mute
in the musician’s hand

I want to go to Med-school
simple reply

And I miss the sun
socked in dull white
like plaster
of a small room
too clean

Sunday Afternoon

Dahlia
the raven-eyed mother calls a name
sifting through the neatly sorted laundry
on a counter
sanitized too late

And the mail slots
numbered in odd intervals
watch her fold and tear
fret and glance beneath her undone hair
dyed red unevenly

The child sighs and murmurs
content within lazy folds
never asleep
the mother coos
tired dove

Bobbing down the aisles
of forty five minute conveniences
a dollar fifty each

She lacks the change
the new born mother
and turning worried
carries her Dahlia
wrapped in dirty sheets.

Addiction

He called himself a free man
—pour another drink
stroking pinup playing cards
his fingers frail and long
nails cracked, black
imperfect glass
Eyes fixated on the screen

—and yes, my teeth are perfect
groomed and dined
fat and clean
—and yes, I slept in three beds
a month between
each a different scream
—pass around the merry ink well
and I shall never dream
And he passed out a free man
his hand inside the stain

The Cool Breath of Evening

Imperfect mirror of aged glass
distorted and broken base
find the face, find the space
at evening when the light grays to black
and the room ceases to breath

Oh how weary
weary, weary

head tilted toward dawn a night away
always still

And yet
in the distance
the rain of stars and singing quiet protest
Smoke-eyed siren on the stage
of spent cigarettes, crushed cans
and high heels pressed and fade
fade now into an empty breath
breathless
and late, lounging idly
her fingers beneath eyes
eyes of blue
always
she sighs

How weary
weary, weary

stroke the flame with sunken lips

The bearded Indian
a shadow beneath neon signs
proclaiming the son of God

holy effigy
holy sun

Speak
voice of amber gray
hollow mask of drunken misery

I am conquered
in the past
the distance

Trail away, blue pennant at dawn
fade in long trails into the west

Oh how weary
and now silence fills the room.

Awake at Eleven

There was a fire off Second Street
in a town of only four
He tried to tell me
slowly, in an airy voice
eyes distant, though knowing my face
his breath foul and heavy
though not out of place
reversing the words quickly in some backward rhyme
almost unnoticed
and yet

While the fire burned they took turns
boys in loose fit t-shirts
beating back the flames that snaked
and moved hurriedly through the grass
capped in brown

Until someone remembered the bucket
doused the flames
before they reached the propane
usually left on after morning

He tried to tell me
exaggerating the danger,
the small part he played
in watching the flames

Said something about a cigarette
There are plenty of cigarettes
spent and cast aside
mingled with the gravel
that covers Second Street
in a town of only four

Prayer Flags

I’ve seen prayer flags on a rooftop
a gift, she said
legs crossed over coffee
wood stained somewhat irrationally dark
in a house of lighted windows

The roof became a peak
green in long metallic rows
summit almost out of reach
the flags brilliant against the sky
ponder the sun

And he scaled the scalding mountain
at noon on a Saturday
the aged cigarette cowboy broke his pose
to stare that a man could reach so high
feel the wind scented with hay and flame

I’ve seen a man, unsteady stand
drunk, they said
hands wound in the banner string
proclaim his god, his absent president
and fall, wide-eyed and wondering
ponder the earth.