One or Two

Glass doors painted white
I turned just for a minute
but I saw them go inside
and walking down the narrow hall

Senoritas in the doorway
insinuating themselves between the dancers on the floor
floodlight revelry
someone claps and cries for more

But the band is on break
and the music on the radio is just not loud enough
and so they took her back and tried to speak in Spanish for a while
the fly-bitten truck pulled up outside

I looked for a cowboy or two
but found only pretending
farm boys dressed in slacks they borrowed for only
an hour or two

The door painted yellow on the inside
was glass
and it shattered in one shard or two
into the street.

Slideshow

She held her smile for a while
but in the second frame
appeared a little strained
looked at food with a fork

—she complained
it’s always too warm and too much a compliment
with you
your heavy-handed compliments

a moment in the stream
the rod tip gleamed
motionless
it never shuddered or stirred

He looked away
blue sky over the garden
and the ground seemed to bloom
dirty, waiting for the rain

thunderheads in the hazy distant horizon
the broken plain
thinking of Custer
his last haircut
Blue Evening
and looking off beyond the screen
faded out

Too much
—he proclaimed

yelling now
voices rising
past the six foot fences of rotting wood
propped up by some fading proposition
for a photograph

waiting for the time, the money, the arrangement

flipping the flowers bloomed
buzzing and dripping with a camera flash
a thousand tiny prints

Staring down through the glass table top
toward their bare feet
tanned discreetly
but only half as well-manicured as the lawn

And the pretended argument of a million little details
stalled for a moment in the sun

and the picture turned around
was autocorrected discreetly
the frame cropped until there was only the two
fit in

He stood for a moment
shouted
some heavy-handed remark
a final word
and faded away with the next transition

the backlight dimmed
and the slideshow was at an end.

Backwards

There’s a growing movement
cut and dry
grassroots capped in mud
moving down the highway now
apologies; I forgot the name
waving flags and slogans bright
with smiles of angry wrath
they’re coming, they’re coming
much too fast
prematurely one might say

There’s a growing movement
toward the insane
I hear the swallows cry
as they bounce and whirl
swim the air
sigh passing by
there’s a growing hush in the silent spring

There’s a growing feeling
of malcontent
with the status quo
as it were
or was thought to be
Protect our city
upon the hill
I believe is the motto
carved on plaques proudly on display
until tomorrow
not today

There’s a growing trust in the by-gone days
the idyllic certain past
it must certainly have been that way
so that way it shall stay
Speak up
just not too loudly
There’s a growing movement of solidarity
shut up and sing

There’s a growing rush on the untitled shrines
the depressions of yesterday’s rain
the plastic flags, the tarnished rose
that garbage on the lawn
Save our streets from the destitute
this mindless modern art

They tore it down to save face
There’s a growing movement towards all that anyway
the cosmetics industry thanks you all
so very, very, very, very, very, very much.

And so the dawn
sits nimbly on the edge of my bed
bed of clouds
empty bed of formless, shapeless breath

Turn the last crippled bulb
half on
for the time being
and feel what it’s like
this dull electrical warmth
it grows and shrinks
with each moment I wake
these dreams will fade by tomorrow’s tomorrow.

Break-neck Eurasian collared pigeon
pretending predatory instincts
the acute quietness of eating alone

So let me sit and think of
lace-frosted ladyfingers
dusted and dainty on plates I never knew

Too soon to think of taking advantage
the coarse lines wooden trim
tips dark in half-lighted twilight

Hesitate, patient now
forming the words a little awkwardly
the freezer ceases to breathe and moan

Tonight a thousand stars
tonight a dull-lit moon
the backdrop blacker and not as heavy

It’s been so long
since I’ve looked at stars
my eyes tremble in the darkness.

Rain Filled Streets

Itching cold in the rain
running along with the swollen streams in the street
dull lights on the asphalt gray and yellow

We clasped hands and pushed curry on glass plates
the warmth inside can never reflect the rain

Don’t step off the edge
to the quiet life of domesticity below
falling down through the glass ceiling

Before the window is boarded up
the shadowy figures like a Rockwell
two houses just the same

I saw them walk inside
but I stayed out in the rain