Awful
Arthur’s Oyster House
A mermaid
burnished with a shellac from Akron,
juts out
of cheap pine paneling—the restaurant’s
trophy
for people unlocked from the Midwest,
their
hands soaked in lemon pulp and fat.
Few
notice her hanging on the wooden wall—
a man
cutting steak slips the knife delicately
into his
thumb and his potato turns into a pink purse.
The bone
exposed is translucent, otherworldly.
Sunburned
children ooh and ask to see his hand,
his wound.
He leaves hurriedly, napkin-wrapped fingers,
head
above clouds of kid chatter, stilted romantic desserts.
Servers
offer frothy drinks towered with cherries,
and lean
in the kitchen—secret cups of whiskey
and
filthy mouths undercut couples trying
to bring
it somewhere new, where everything
is sifted
and slanted to align with the sun.
When
everyone leaves, the horizon—stagnant
sky
map—slowly bends orange, red, beryl.
Local
kids blend sweat and gears, they race cars
at
midnight, leave oil slicks glittering with sand and glass.
The sea
leaves its trail, but its waves never return.
It
migrates miles in tires on grooved asphalt,
an impotent messenger: nearby the ocean is dying.
Ode
to Lemons
1.
Little
elliptical suns,
stacked
across
the
grocer’s shelves,
at noon
or dawn,
the
lemons
shine
immaculate—
eyes
forever winking
shut.
2.
Medicinal
welterweight,
bright yellow
peels
steeped and
infused;
given to those
who fight for:
blood, beauty,
love,
brimming from
within
tinted
tincture vials.
3.
Children
swallow
lemon seeds
and think
a whole tree—
white
petals waiting
to push
pulp and
seed
into a
tight ball—
will
grow inside them;
small
bellies expanding
with
wingless
canaries.
After
Joan Miro’s Painting
The Lark’s Wing, Encircled with Golden
Blue, Rejoins the Heart of the
Poppy Sleeping on a Diamond-Studded Meadow
Thick tangle
of green moss
debased with
the face of a poppy,
do you lament
your segregation?
Bisected away
from the sun,
cinctured by a
slash of black—
can you hear
those Mediterranean voices,
that near-silence
of Catalan, whose x’s
move like wind
over l’mari,
on so many
red-tinged lips?
Beneath you,
the earth’s star, or worse—
an advancing
alien sea—
blinds a
cerulean swell harboring
the eye pit.
The pupil long dead,
no longer
widens with the image
it recalls—Roman
marches in Barcino;
strong chants
trailing the sea:
ad manes
fratrum, to our
brother’s
spirits, let
us live, let us die.
Boston,
November 2006
We find a broken pumpkin, still immaculate
pulp and pith shine delicious—
days until decay snakes a downy path.
Seeds and strings web through our fingers,
fevered to crush and smash such bright flesh
before air and mites and street shit cause its collapse.
Maybe the fight, or a moonless night sky tide
compels this flush, this departure from censure—
our hands and arms lush with slick, glinting guts.
Tips
for Bear Proofing Your Home
Old Westerns and hotel sheets make
the best defense.
Hang em High projected onto garage doors or siding—
guests wrapped like little goblins
in high thread counts,
sipping gimlets; bears recoil from
such phantasmal excesses.
Bears eat clouds and clover
patches, but will settle for pasta.
Store food in anything non-cumulous
and wait.
If your kitchen is untouched today,
you must protect it again;
wear a sheet shroud and let True
Grit ring through the nightwatch.
Loud crashes encourage bears,
brothers to Bacchus that they are,
but whispers attract them even
more. Their hearing is poor
and they worry about being made fun
of. Their growl and roar
grew as delicate evolutions to
protect a winter’s worth of feeling.
Naturally curious, bears masquerade
as lewd, furry garbage men;
but they wander, poets in the
night, looking for material
and star-sanctioned connections. Paint
Your Wagon plays
tonight so they will slip past your
house, unnoticed and alone.
Locality
1.
Arranged arrows
slung too static
in their quiver—
the nock never knows
what comes next
perpetual pause
plucks it to place.
Arrowhead points blast
first, splintering pine
or spurring skulls—
the fletching feather’s
waver should wisp back,
but even if it does,
the nock must wait.
2.
Like the slinky’s last coil
suspended
mid-air—
a slight second of stillness—
love doesn’t hear that love is bled
until
the splatter of spill
and then, the lightheaded
lift of death.
3.
The pink slip
or a slip left in your bed
happen just after
they were never expected.
It will take 8 minutes
and 20 seconds
to see the sun has gone
to some, 8 minutes
and 20 seconds never
sounded so good.