stillwater, oklahoma

These people are fishes swimming in a sea of heat
drinking it up. Daylight drinks are done well,
or light, not done up. I feel doomed
to follow you there,
dudes. I wish I was with
my lady friend, my sanely friend.
But your hospitality
is mead-hall worthy, and the sway
in the leaves matches it.

I could tell her about this
instead the bottom of these multitudinous glasses
which, if melted,
would cover these dusty tables nicely.

Calling from Stillwater, Oklahoma
where buckles are big and hair is short
and the heat flows
from the great gas spigot in the sky
and I am a dog listening to all the whistles,
where there is more hospitality than I want or need,
liquid hospitality, that is,

and I think about my far gone woman
probably asleep before me,
how I would like blushingly to hold her hand here
and say look darlin how good
they treating me
fighting hard not to feel scared.

Upstrapped by his boots-pulled,
he set about opening coffee chains
and the girl down below
moaned a blue note, a blue note, a blue note.

The great erring pains
of bearing the ugliest goddam baby in the world
tore out his wife's temporal lobe.
Step aside, he said,

gesticulating at her. She stepped.
Her little white gown swayed a little
in the ICU air.
He motioned towards his feet, and she kissed them.

The ocean turned in full defeat,
the denouement undone
or undoing itself until full night comes,
neptune on its back.

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.

the minimum

1

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.


2

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
glory-hole.

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.  

ode on fried chicken

1


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
kid-with-hand-in-cookie-jar,

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


2

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.