Turner Movie Classic

Everything alive was hiding from the heat.
That's me in the back of an air conditioned SUV
eating Picasso pizza with cubist pineapple rings.

Two drivers are speaking, Chindali.
I'm in a weekend Twilight Zone of movie classics
and back-to-back hospital visits.

Valentine Song

My heart's stuffed in my cranium
But it hasn't missed a beat
I need to buy a bus pass
Downtown to get a by-pass

I need a new address
Before I have a relapse
Eat me with knife and forklift
Pick me up with golden toothpicks

My calls are sopping up gravy
I use to wave in the Navy
Standing on the wings of a ship
I can do a double-flip

Suppose seesaws are maybes
Rocking on a four-lane highway
and you're shouting that you love me
and I can't hear a damned thing?

So what were we doing there?
Without carrying a spare?
A car came along and nicked us
I think it was a lime Prius.

So much for energy efficient
If only that were sufficient
To infuse what we give away
Here's hoping you'll always stay

January 21, 2009

I did not go to Washington, D.C. for the inauguration of Barack Obama, but went there to watch the 44th President take his oath of office with my friend of forever who knows an aircraft carrier does not turn at right angles and how to spell out words backwards in the clouds. We knew about each other's magic. To move through her kingdom, she fashioned garnets for my eyes, and I, her, a velvet cloak, but even with those charms we were knocked about in the finishing pool of sand and glass, and so here we are now, scarred brown and white russets who grew up in the Bronx near Hunts Point Avenue eating yes-i-canapes predicting that none of the pimps and gang members would trouble the Mall unless they wished to rouse the ire of the community, sitting in front of a television set on a morning when any sentence could begin with an infinitive as 5,000 portapotties and millions of people lined Pennsylania Avenue in freezing January at ground truth, which is more exceptional than the president's proposed stimulus package, his latest appointment, and his acceptance speech, for it is unending love that carries us across the river.

Under Clown Cover

A yearly pre scription of buying poinsettias for the front porch, a touch of winter bright red blood for a condo complex, the tree, decorations, and I am so ready to post a toasty deal sifting through salt tablets and discounted bric-a-brac running down the door hugger with empty shopping bags and pulling out a plastic piece getting it done early and saving big while at the next off ramp, careful not to get mauled or borrow myself silly unless it's at 4 percent with a bank I can trust because the sack doesn't hurt as much as the tumble, so say can you, "Me, me, me" for whom the bell tolls since it's tolling for all-night suckers gone to investment bankers recounting money, and when everything is said and done it will never be said and done, from the time I placed my pants on the counter as a person in good standing which allows me to compute off the turnpike of whatever is expected and under wearing clown cover, I see the first fringe of spring

Birthday Song

On that day,
stars of the ancient land
opened like widening eyes
in a blue night expanding
edges of the universe,
as we approached each other
dressed in robes of brown lambs wool
asking how to start over,
hands raised in tents like olives
on smooth stones as round as hope
with tongues minted from basil,
not starting from some checkpoint,
no, but wanting to dimple
the granite fissure of time,
to smile whiter than the pearls
of a newborn's first milk teeth,
with rubies glowing as deep
as the color of friendship,
see after these long years how
two old flames find each other,
ah, the touch of foot on soil,
the fit of lock to a key
in a place where ends find beginnings,
where hearts are not hostages,
where drums regard distance,
and the world is created once again.

First Light Love

for Diki

Once I thought I'd found love
but it was a monkey skin
swinging from a curtain rod.

When I tickled its chin,
it jabbed me with toenails.
I felt so pricked,

spotted with holes,
a constant downpour raining
through my shocked mouth.

So much for that story.
Now I think love is a cream
for rubbing on my chest

that makes me smell good
when I step out of the bath,
softening my heart

with a certain carelessness,
and something else.
You are my first light love.

Ballot Language

Some people want to hide the taxi on your tongue. "Talk ballot language. No lies. Say either Yes or No." Stalling for time, you squeeze out a few more words about how some stupid asshole politician doesn't have a clue and probably will never have a clue even if someone handed him a magnifying glass to read all the answers, which only gets a pained look and you don't know what to do except to keep explaining what he said in the taxi looking to find weapons of mass destruction. Always maybeing. Call the Scheherazade help line. You like details, want to know the color of a ribbon on a dress, how the clouds were tacked in the sky, or the taste of macaroni and cheese as it clots on your tongue. Your big mistake is in believing other people want to hear the same thing. No, they don't, mouthwonk. Details confuse things. They hide the hedgerow. If you give a shunt, whoops, there goes the operation. Wheels and all. Check the macaroni. Blame technology. Blame Gatekeepers who need to hire more police officers for special events. Then it comes down to, “Do we have the money: Yes or No?” Check the square box. Run with the wolves. Hail a cabbie. Tell me the way to Happy Hour.