My Ford was cooked and I was lost. I pulled
into the town of just swell. The ravine
of blue hair-conditioned track homes
sucked what little smoke was left in my lungs.

A swarm of spider-veined Reaganites walked the root-
cracked sidewalks. I was surrounded;
and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

I tempered my haste and weaseled my way
under the hood without alarming the natives.
Popped my Pabst and manned my block;
I whispered in her ear, I'll get you through this,
baby.

I focused through the glare of tea jugs
and sun-spotted legs in polyester socks.
I'll be damned if that fucking poodle
wasn't as smug as its leash holding grin;
but who was I to judge.

The miles of coiled green hose on saturated lawns
twisted my gut something fierce. The sound
of pimpled larvae tugging at the teats of Stepfords
caused a painful twitch in my cock.

I polished my baby just right and dropped the hood;
pounded the gas and left grease in my wake.
The zombies in my rearview were frozen in defeat;
I beat them perfect and victory was mine.

I sometimes envy the evidence of languid hours:
a congregation of acrid filters
commiserating beneath a bench;
the front stoop caped
in feathers of newspaper;
shards of green longnecks
freckling the cement.
Until I had sluiced bluesmoke to
mine coal stripes in my pink lungs,
or smashed bottles, pissed incontinent,
between cars and curbs,
I interpreted litter
with thick-lipped innocence.
Now I smile while walking by,
same mouth, just stained.

you will not like this poem
        it does not describe antediluvian wastes
                  makes scarce use of polysyllabic wordplay
        will neither challenge nor commend the reader's literacy

you will not like this poem
        it does not compare the poet to dylan thomas or anaïs nin—
                  humbly accedes to conventions of grammar and spelling—
        avoids the fumbling contrivances of grade ten english compositions

you will not like this poem
        this verse is forced to rhyme
and does not even try to flourish
        syncopated time

not that the poet has failed to notice
        the wretched calm that precedes torrent and flood
                  how these words have filtered down from greater minds
        or that rhyme and meter are terribly unfashionable

nor has the poet failed to notice
        that poetry can reek of commodity—
                  writing is an act of desperation and compliance—
        and these lines, too, are a product of manufacture

Moon shines down
in white spread beams
on closed-up flower.

Youths speak words
with loud, gash tones
into thin air.

Chopsticks click
in dim lit room
for waiter's meal.

Wolf-dog howls
at flat, white disk
'til early dawn.

I know a Man
He has Straw
Growing in His Heart
Someday
I would like to walk
Though His Heart
And crush the Straw

The mist draws down.
This house, the only house.
Tunneled to our window,
the smell of earth.

It was when sunlight
streamed in through
the bus window,
and the boy stuck
a round mint in his mouth,

the type we used to
hold contests with in
elementary school. How
we held as many of those
diabolical mints

as was humanly possible,
watched tears glide
across faces. Then we'd try
to kiss some boy, naturally.

It was the heat
of this boy's mouth, light
feel of saliva that must
have melted the edges
till it wasn't round

anymore. It was a glacier,
a two day old snowman,
the child-crafted igloo
when Spring's first warmth
hits the air. The sun,
the click of the tin,
a puff of white dust that
turned silver in the heat.

Smoking or non, quiet,
poet seeking residence,
two cats, lover friendly,
wide grounds to walk upon,
gardens, water, swimming,
all very preferable

Because of the morphine
I must write down
everything. Otherwise I
might forget the last
dose or the name of
my nurse or who I
should yell at or praise
or how my wallet got
so empty when I watched it.

Now, when the human life in this room
Is ebbing,
The attitudes of the objects
Have become apparent.

The rocking chair
Stretches forth its armrests,
Ready to embrace,
To lull with the stories
Of a long lifetime.

The mirror turns a blind eye
To all that is happening here,
Gazing intently
Into its own distant dreams.

The hospital bed knows
That it is seen as ugly,
Unwanted in every room that it enters.
Yet it goes about its work
Reliably and with care,
Keeping the patient
As comfortable as it is able,
Trying to make its large presence
Somehow less obtrusive.

The edge of the crystal vase
Glitters hard in the corner.
Being confined to a sickroom,
The dusty monotony
Of these pathetic fake flowers—
This is not what it's made for!

The curtains hold back the darkness,
Soften the midday light.
Catching the slightest motion
Of the air, they stir like wings,
Like the white sails of a ship,
Sensing the wind, the space
Of a great invisible world.

Here we go
again, full
of it.

Full of life,
and so
much more.

With leaves
to sweep
under

Something
or other,
I dunno which.

I took a train once from Antwerp to Brussels, sailing
dusk from Brooklyn when the Atlantic
freighters still lay down the Heights, rolling

there overnight with mosquitoes
from southern Ohio, pausing on the moon
in West Virginia, at Grafton then its twin speck Keyser before

first light short of Baltimore. Those still on they offed
at Jersey City, the B & O left
no Manhattan tracks. They crossed us on a fossil

Hudson ferry roped at Liberty Street, nodded us on
a freshly watered salmon
motor coach to the end against Grand Central.

A war before I routinely was brought by rail to the tropics
of Rockaway Beach—and those peeling old
Crayola burnt sienna

Els in summer
turning over
Queensboro Bridge

gave you to see the receding
sounds
of the slivery city

from tiny open-air verandas
crammed with standees on
the Roosevelt Avenue tenement

trail to the new planet
World's Fair. So high up there
in space Father never let go my hand.