Wednesday, January 18, 2012

snow fragment

The eerie quiet gathering of snow:
innocent infants assembling on branches,
bushes with deciduous leafs, the shoulders of coats
worn by those who walk to work.
The murmuring silent assimilation
each flake, solely its own in the sky
becomes one with the bank by salted roads.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

the minimum


Absurdly named, a pesto-pan-tomato-roll
roars past my face

and I am sore, sore afraid: bad news
bears are uh-comin.

Scheduled to work 12 days
in a row, I moan, alone:

I got no angle on the truth
but the truth's got an angle on me.


You tired, you sick, you hungry?
Too bad, you. We in charge

all priapic for money;
we in charge got you where we want you.

We the redneck in the woods
lowering his trousers for a chafing go

at your shivering

Monday, January 9, 2012

afternoon at nielsen's pastries

A five-car pileup of oldsters at the pastry case
ordering snitters, danishes, cinnamon rolls
espressos, kringles, and cake
take their first, second, and final bites slowly;
to them, there's more than enough time
to take your time
even as there is no more time to waste.
The schizophrenic outside
strikes the air
takes a step back
and I wonder
what exactly he's hitting at

and why he hits it
or if he strikes himself
or got struck, himself
one day by a ball thrown
past its intended recipient. 

Did he wear a helmet
after that? Would you? 
Would you waltz, feint, or tarry
at coffee, cards, or tea? 

He smokes, smokes, and yells
mostly at cops. Wherefore 
you go, you go unwillingly,
all of you. I would give him

back his teeth, I think,
set his eyes on the same
traintracks, to smash the money
in the penny.  

Thursday, January 5, 2012

ode on fried chicken


Sitting in the Safeway parking lot
munching fried chicken

I hunch my shoulders
and try not to be seen,

savoring each
grease-smeared morsel.

I'm afraid of being spotted
by friends and in-laws,

my wife, colleagues and onlookers,
the foodies of Seattle, Washington.

I don't want to be taken for a heathen
or as a brethren of the fat-folks

whom share my name
and history. Those gun-toting rednecks,

purveyors of big trucks and mysterious chickens,
whom I know and somehow

love. Yet still I know I would rather be here,
here in Seattle, Washington,

where I feel like the proverbial

hunching down and eating fried chicken,
waiting for judgment to come.


Eating animals, parts of animals,
parts from which part of the animal

I cannot tell you, dipped
in batter made from an unknown frozen

delicatessen, in grease that has been frying
for years

because pleasure, pure pleasure
is better than the constant thinking

of how I will die.
I will die someday too soon

I know, and to my death-moon I'll say,
You're early, goddamnit. Until then:

what of the joys that are here:
fried chicken, late nights, peanuts, pizza and beer?

Hunker down, chicken-eater!
Get out that egg beater,

set the skillet to flame on the stove, fry drumsticks
without fear:

the last day comes too soon
no matter what you do.