I saw a child set down her binder like a wall

through the candy bin at the Corner Luncheonette

so she could scoop out gum while she spoke to the clerk—

and from that moment was in love: Oh theft.

College was supposed to straighten me

like a bent tree strangled by a wire,

but being done with sweetness I could not resist the lure of meat.

How the red muscle gleamed in its shiny wrap,

a wedge that had once been the thigh or the loin

of a slow brute’s body, sugar-dirt and clotted grass

to be snatched in an instant

and zipped into the crone-y-est of pocketbooks.

Radiance housed in rawhide again, as when it was living.

A steak can be stuck in your jeans when you’re skinny,

a rump roast is right for a puffy down coat,

small chops will fit under a thin peasant blouse

where it falls off the breasts

like a woodland river

with a limestone amphitheater underneath.

Ancient city, ancient sublet, ancient wooden fire escape—

with my other bandits I learned to say how-de-do in French.

We were yanking on the cord that would start the motor of our lives

though we did not have the choke adjusted yet.

Sometimes it seemed I floated in the dregs like a tea bag

bloating up with facts.

Until a girl ran in the door, panting hard, face red,

slab thudding

from her snowflake-damasked waist onto the table,

and we stood around it gawking at the way it seemed to breathe.

COMPARATIVE MORPHOLOGY OF THE VERTEBRATES

Knowledge shipped north in white plastic buckets.

To pry the lid off was to open a tomb.

We began with the shark

and worked our way up through the frog and the dove—

each month we groped the swamp like fugitives

to raise the next ghoul on the syllabus.

With a bright blade I sliced through the pelt’s wet mess,

exposing the viscera inside, tinted with latex

— blue for the veins, yellow for lymph—

it made me feel childish to see how far

somebody thought I needed the body to be

dumbed down. Outside was dumbed down

by late day’s half-dark, as snowflakes dropped into

Lac Saint-Louis, paddled in silence by great northern pike,

their insides mangled by old hooks.

No place in them conformed to its

depiction in the charts, but the first lesson

was sameness: from the frog in one bucket

to the frog in the next—

no surprises ahead in the formaldehyde of my life:

obedient fugitive,

go on,

roll up your sleeve,

plunge your arm in.

The old woman in the parking lot

wields her walker not unspryly. Gray hair

lank and without style, hanging

under her ski hat, as I wear a ski hat—

her legs bare under her skirt,

my legs bare under my skirt,

she wears sneakers, I wear sneakers—

windbreaker, windbreaker. She rolls up

to watch me board, as people do,

because it is interesting

to see the wheelchair maneuvered backward

into the van. You got it?

she asks, as people do

though I am not their child.

We are not sisters either,

despite the wind’s ruffling our skirts in sync—

oh how she is interested in the ruffling of my skirt.

The ruffle makes her giddy, starts

her bald gums racing on their wordless observations

as she peers into my thighs.

How alike we are! says this

no-sister of mine to be argued with,

just some crazy old woman

flashing the terrible crater of her smile

to raise the wind and

prove her point.

At night the bones move where the animals take them,

bones of the girls that once were girls,

the hand-bones missing, you know how it goes,

you fill in the blank, the unimaginable X

of horrid futures. From bus stops

before dawn, from outside the maquiladoras

when the horizon bites the sun’s gold coin,

from the hundred places to fail to arrive at

or return from, the bones uncouple

their linkages and travel separate ways.

Too many of them for just one theory—

too many skulls for the drug lords even,

for the husbands the satanists the cross-border whore-killers

…until you start to suspect the dirt itself.

Between the concrete wall and the drainage ditch,

the sheet-metal scraps and collapsed storm fence,

a desert of ocotillo scrub, not even one decent

cowboy cactus, one bent arm

swearing an oath of truth. When I was younger

I wrote this poem many times and don’t know

where I was going with it: so much worship

for every speck of mica giving off

a beam I made into a blade. And you can see

how I turned mere rocks into villains

when it turns out the landscape’s not at fault,

the parched land a red herring — this is not the song

of how the men fried while hiding inside the boxcar

(and even then someone outside locked the door).

My poems took place where the wind-skids sang:

perhaps I’ve been too fond of railroad tracks

and the weedy troughs alongside them, which do

accept most everything. Especially the spikes,

how I loved those spikes cast into silence,

in this case behind the factories, where the grass

grows sparser than in the poor soils of Texas,

a place with completely different ghosts

lying just over the river. To get there

you will have to pass by a large pink cross

made out of such spikes at the border station,

and here’s the main thing, forgive me, I missed in my youth:

how from each spike hangs a name.

While the spectacular round butt of the fat junkie sitting on the curb

rotated upward from his belt—

the legs of the skinny junkie wriggled upward from a dumpster.

And when he stood, I saw

his familiar figure, thinned—

two times he’d snipped my kitchen with the scissors of his hips

while he directed stories from the rehab clinic toward us

ladies in our panty hose,

our fingers sliding up and down our wineglass stems.

Later, in the cloak of his jean jacket,

he slipped upstairs and stole my pharmaceuticals,

my legitimate pharmaceuticals!—

so an awkwardness descended on the realm of gestures

there in the alley behind the YMCA, where I looked at any alternate—

pothole, hydrant, not buttocks,

don’t look at buttocks, don’t look at dumpster, don’t. Look:

I would have been a crone to him,

and he would have been my pirate son,

my son who sleeps beneath the bridge

in the cloak of his jean jacket, dabbed with fecal matter now.

Still, when he comes at night,

brass button by button

and blade by blade — his skinny thighs—

I open myself like a medicine cabinet

and let him take the pill bottles from my breasts.

Not infrequently I find myself wondering which of you are dead

now that it’s been so long since I have had a boyfriend

for whom this wonder would be a somewhat milder version of

the way our actual parting went — i.e., with me not wondering

but outright wishing that an outright lightning bolt

would sail sharply into your thick heads.

Can I plead youth now over malign intent?

And does my moral fiber matter anyhow

since I have not gone forth and et cetera’d—

i. e., doesn’t my absent children’s nondepletion of the ozone layer

give me some atmospheric exchange credits under the Kyoto Protocol

to release the fluorocarbons of these unkind thoughts?

Anyhow what is the likelihood of you old boyfriends reading this

even if you are not dead? Be assured your end is hypothetical.

Also be assured I blush most furiously

whenever that tower room in Ensenada comes to mind

where the mescal functioned as an exchange credit for those lies you told

about your Alford pleas and your ex-wives who turned out not ex at all.

Anyhow the acid rain has caused my lightning to go limp

over bungalows where you have partial custody of your teenagers

and AA affirmations magneted to the fridge

from which your near beers sweat as you wonder if I’m dead,

since the exchange for this-here wonder is your wonder about me.

Even though it shows my nerve — to think you’d think of me at all—

I await word of your undeadness

P.S. along with your mild version of my just reward.

The family sank into its sorrows—

we softened like noodles in a pot.

Whereas the bicycle’s bones were painted gold

and stood firm against the house

no matter how hard it rained.

Beneath the handlebar mount, it said royal in red letters

unscathed despite the elements;

this was the bicycle’s first lesson,

to be royal and unscathed—

I pressed my ear-cup to the welds.

Pedal furiously, then coast in silence.

You will need teeth to grab the chain.

Exhortations with the stringent priggishness of Zen,

delivered by a guru who hauls you off and wallops you

in answer to your simple question.

Though its demise is foggy,

I can conjure with precision its rebukes, the dull sting

when the boy-bar bashed my private place.

Then no talking was permitted

beyond one stifled yelp.

You could, however, rub the wound

with the meat of your thumb — so long

as you did this stealthily, pretending you had an itch.

Amphicar rolls across the breakfast table

as the happy family plunges into the river—

don’t worry. I’ve just trolled them from the river

of human news. Today’s lifestyle feature:

this convertible that once topped my desires,

all my crackpot desires

(my parents would not buy one to drive the filthy current).

Instead we rode a station wagon into our oblivion,

when we could have ridden into our oblivion

with the means of rescue. In the famous myths

how many souls got banished to the underworld

(or turned into trees, their arms the branches whorled)

and were doomed because they let themselves be driven

over death’s river (or into the tree)

without a plan for their re-entry

into living human form? In my actual river I never stepped down

because, the myth went, its bottom was shit,

and when the mayor confessed it was actual shit

the world proved itself to be a sluice of lies

even if the water was blue

or sort of blue.

Amphicar would have wheeled right through it,

manufactured ’61 through ’68, the years of my youth

(my banished-to-the-back-of-the-station-wagon youth),

with no propeller or white leather seats,

no top rolled down, no fishing pole slanting up.

No one listened to me: how we could just drive up

on the shores of Hell, and tan on that beach for a while.

If we only had an Amphicar. Then when we grew sick for home

we could have crossed back home.

Brick laid down, scritch of the trowel’s

downward stroke, another brick set

then the flat side of the trowel moving

across the top of the course of bricks.

My father stepped from the car in his brown loafers,

the rest of him is fading but not his loafers,

the round spot distended by his big toe.

Brick laid down, scritch of the trowel’s

downward stroke, the silver bulb of the door lock

sticking up as I sat in the car,

the kid in the dress. Newark burned

just over the river, not so far south

as the South of their skin — deepening

under the ointment of sweat, skin and sweat

they’d hauled from the South

brother by brother and cousin by cousin

to build brick walls for men like my father

while Newark burned, and Plainfield burned,

while the men kept their rhythm, another brick set,

then the flat side of the trowel moving

across the top as my father crossed the mud.

I sat in the car with the silver bulb of the door lock

sticking up, though I was afraid,

the kid in the dress, the trowel moving

across the top of the course of bricks.

You can’t burn a brick,

you smashed a brick through a window,

the downward stroke, another brick set,

but to get the window first you needed a wall,

and they were building the wall,

they were building the wall

while my father, in his brown loafers,

stepped toward them with their pay.

Mario Perillo has died, call him Mr. Italy—

and I regret never having gone sightseeing

in a bus marked PERILLO TOURS.

He was no relative of mine,

all that connects us is the name:

this foldout plastic promotional rain hat

someone handed me at birth.

An accident of the alphabet: can’t say

I haven’t craved a more streamlined form — sometimes

you get tired of being Lucia Perillo

and want to slide by, without ripping the ether

with all your cognominal barbs and hooks.

Anthony DiRenzo, my old cubicle-mate,

went by the name of Mr. Renz—

a truncation that once caused my scorn to sputter forth,

though now I see: the burden of the vowels.

First there’s the issue of the sonic clang

and next there’s the issue of our guilt,

that we’ve strayed onto turf where we don’t belong,

so far from the outer-borough homelands

of shoe repair and autobody shops.

This is the guilt Verdi captures in his aria

“Di Provenza il mar,” which Anthony sang

one night in our empty basement office

while snow spread its hush money two floors above.

Alfredo’s father is begging him to come home,

to abandon the floozy he picked up in Paris—

if he waits a hundred years, he can hop

aboard Mario’s red-and-green tour bus

in time for the cocktail hour, perhaps,

with honeydew melon served the way I love it:

wrapped in the paper-thin slices of fat

that choked my father’s heart.

Sometimes a name seems our most arbitrary possession,

and sometimes it seems like the grain in a rock

like a sculptor’s hunk of Italian marble: whack it

and you might get either your first glimpse of a saint

or a pile of rubble. Now Mario P.

has entered my obituary book

facing Lucia Pamela, another tour guide of sorts,

having recorded her album on the moon

after flying there in her pink Cadillac.

One nutty broad, Mario would say: A real fruity-patootie—

whose off-key canzone-ing would plink in my ears

way too unsweetly this time of the morning

as Verdi holds forth through the hi-fispeakers

with another (true story) Lucia-of-the-vowels

singing the role of Alfredo’s beloved slut.

In my own flights of grandeur, I am a wormhole

connecting the Roman Empire to outer space,

joining the Old World to the dogs on the moon—

however crudely my name has roughed me in.

In my hometown, Perillos were common as shrubs,

a tribe in white lipstick and lamb-chop sideburns,

such as worn by the one who spirited me to the docks

in the spaceship of his Nova. He even wore

my dad’s middle name, and I bet the vortex of his lips

meeting mine would have ripped the cosmic silk

or caused a galactic cymbal crash. Or blown

the head gasket of the space-time bus:

sing Tuscany Mercury Verdi Prosciutto—

hail Mary, just Mary, three times for my penance

and thank the aniseed liquor for blacking me out.

The square watermelons that sell for ninety-two dollars in Japan

show up next to a painting by Congo the chimpanzee,

which sold for twenty-six thousand dollars yesterday,

though by yesterday I don’t mean “yesterday”

because Congo died of tuberculosis forty years ago

and this newspaper is two months old,

and who knows where you (hypothetical reader) lie

if-anywhere in the future? You’ll have to add X

to all the numbers as time passes

because the prices usually inflate

while space collapses around these things that hum as if with current,

until they’re placed so close sparks arc across

and make my dental fillings zing.

And though matter is supposed to fly outward for X more billion years

(minus the time-space between me ≠ you)

flick the remote or

turn the page of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer—

and this melon turns into a mouse grafted to a human ear,

suggesting we’ve hastened the constriction

of the final falling-in. Yet

might not all this juxtapositional cram-it-all-in-ness

be our sly protest against the flying-out?

As in the new craze called sacred snuggling

where bodies touch, but do not rub

any membrane that might lubricate?

Wishful thinking? This belief

that we’ll move toward the smell of sweat and scalp

when the giant meteor comes at last

or the bomb slants across the laundry lines (≠)—

whatever the accelerant of our demise?

Me,

I’d rather be immersed, that’s how far my matter’s scattered,

that I’d leave all you behind

to skinny-dip in darkness at the end,

touched by nothing but a spring-fed lake.

After paddling out, I found the manatees

in canals behind the pricey homes,

as I once found the endangered Hawaiian goose

beside the hulks that once were dream cars.

So the scarce beast gets its camouflage

at the farthest outpost of our expectations:

the gators prefer golf courses to marshes,

prefer Cheetos, Fritos, nachos, Ho Hos

to baby fish as bright as coins.

What doesn’t kill us makes us strong

(see the scar where propellers have cut through the hide),

but doesn’t that mean some of us will be killed

and not made strong? My sweet flabbies

swing their gum-rubber hips in freshwater

murmuring from the air-conditioning compressors

and waggle my little boat with their bristles—

what doesn’t tip us over

makes us give a whopper sigh.

Look up, and a geezer by his pool

feeds a great blue heron from his hand:

they are so alike they could be twins, him croaking

a tune the bird has come to know

and stalks at certain times of day.

Meanwhile two girls next door in bathing suits

who have turned on the hose in their backyard

hop now at the edge of their wooden bulkhead

singing Come to us humanities

and oh see how they do.

The professor stabbed his chest with his hands curled like forks

before coughing up the question

that had dogged him since he first read Emerson:

Why am I “I”? Like musk oxen we hunkered

while his lecture drifted against us like snow.

If we could, we would have turned our backs into the wind.

I felt bad about his class’s being such a snoozefest, though peaceful too,

a quiet little interlude from everyone outside

rooting up the corpse of literature

for being too Caucasian. There was a simple answer

to my own question (how come no one loved me,

stomping on the pedals of my little bicycle):

I was insufferable. So, too, was Emerson I bet,

though I liked If the red slayer think he slays—

the professor drew a giant eyeball to depict the Over-soul.

Then he read a chapter from his own book:

naptime.

He didn’t care if our heads tipped forward on their stalks.

When spring came, he even threw us a picnic in his yard

where dogwood bloomed despite a few last

dirty bergs of snow. He was a wounded animal

being chased across the tundra by those wolves,

the postmodernists. At any moment

you expected to see blood come dripping through his clothes.

And I am I who never understood his question,

though he let me climb to take a seat

aboard the wooden scow he’d been building in the shade

of thirty-odd years. How I ever rowed it

from his yard, into my life — remains a mystery.

The work is hard because the eyeball’s heavy, riding in the bow.

When the Black Elvis takes the stage, five of him appear—

start with the man in his white jumpsuit,

then add the jumbo projection behind,

throw in a replication of his replicated feet

plus two copies of his shadow. Though he is five,

he has never been ranked #1

because he does not look like Elvis, which is true:

his voice is more soulful than anyother Elvi

but the judges at the yearly Memphis finals

will not close their eyes and make that final leap.

Not so for the women here, who can frog

the leap still one bounce farther

until a spirit descends and the dead man

lives. It is a little troubling

how much the pageant resembles a Catholic mass

when the women approach as he descends

the stage’s steps, bell-bottoms aflutter

around the doves of his white boots.

Then he drapes a satin strip around their necks.

Then comes the Amen of their swoons.

As for me, I don’t see why a spirit

would deign to enter the body again

when you consider bloat colitis amphetamines etc.

and the final humiliations of the toilet.

Me, I’d prefer to be housed in a ghost

as I’d also prefer that Robert Washington

not wear the electric guitar around his neck

when it is not plugged in. But the scarves

have plugged in these women, who sound

as if they too have been amplified by five, forming one

big animal body my soul just might deign

to descend into. For the plain speech

of its snarls and yips: we are housed

in fur and we’re housed in heat—

we are dogs tied to trees, at the end of a leap

before the lights come up and we are yanked back by our chains.

Word of it comes whispered by a slippery thin section

of the paper, where the models pantomime unruffled tête-à-têtes

despite the absence of their blouses.

Each year when my familiar latches on them so intently

like a grand master plotting the white queen’s path,

like a baby trying to suckle a whole roast beef,

I ask: What, you salt block, are you dreaming

about being clubbed by thunderheads? — but he will not say.

Meanwhile Capricorn’s dark hours flabbed me,

uneasy about surrendering to the expert fitter

(even if the cupped hands were licensed and bonded)—

I had August in mind, seeing the pygmy goats at the county fair.

Now the sky is having its daily rain event

and the trees are having their hibernal bark event,

pretending they feel unruffled

despite the absence of their leaves. And we forget how they looked

all flouncy and green. Instead we regard

fearfully the sway of their old trunks.

Big stink wobbles down the library aisles

from you endomorphs who’ve come in from the thorns—

your musk percolates the picture books

while children sing to the donkey Tingalayo.

It creeps into the reference nook

and biographies of despot popes,

the manuals on car repair, even the old edition Joy of Sex,

the one whose hairy armpits haunt me.

How will the smudge of rotten leaves

ever be lifted from so many paperbackèd bosoms,

the baby doze peacefully in its holster, the ancestors spring

from the accordion-files in their old hats?

Outside, the slacker deer refuse to rut

ever since your scent made its bed on the lawn,

the Chamber of Commerce outraged and

the mayor mowing down the brambles.

Sleep safe here, men! — with your heads tipped back,

wooden newspaper spindles across your chests like swords

while those good Samaritans the moths

knit scarves from the wool of your loud roars and whistles.

In magazine-land, you two are dancing—

though a moment ago you were engaged

in some activity like stringing fenceline

or baling hay — why else the work gloves

sticking up from your back pockets?

In a whirlwind of pollen, you-the-man

have seized you-the-woman to your breast

— his breast, her breast, tenderly, tenderly—

now you turn away and shyly grin.

Oh you possessors of youthful haircuts

& attractive activewear from L.L. Bean,

you whose buttocks are still small enough

to permit the rearview photograph:

don’t you already have enough silver coinage

pouring from life’s slot? But no, you also want

the river’s silver surge where its bed drops off,

you want the namesake in all its glory—Niagara:

even the barge of animals teetering on its lip.

This ploy was wrought by some 19th-century huckster,

the honeymooners gathered on the shore’s high bank

to watch the barge drop as creature-cries rise up…

before all the couples re-bungalow themselves

to do what, then what, it’s hard to imagine

after so much death. I always thought Tigers

until I read the barge was full of dogs and cats—

one baby camel, a demented old monkey,

la petite mort, that little French whimper

given up by the ordinary before it breaks into splinters.

The widow Taylor straps herself in a barrel

and rides it safely over the century’s cusp,

& Maud Willard imbarrels herself with her dog

who’ll leap from the busted staves alone.

Still, wouldn’t the ride be worth that one live leap—

doesn’t part of us want to be broken to bits?

After all, our bodies are what cage us,

what keep us, while, outside, the river

says more, wants more, is more: the R

(grrrr, argh, graa…) in all its variegated coats.

A sound always coming, always smashing, always spoken

by the silver teeth and tongue that guard the river’s open throat.

At first I didn’t get it: I thought it was just scrap metal roped on the roof

of this dented ancient Econoline van

with its parrot-yellow-colored burden.

Bright mishmash so precarious

my heart twitched whenever I had to tail it down the road

until one day I woke to it: you blockhead, that’s a plane.

I don’t know how I missed it — of course it was a plane,

disassembled, with one yellow wing pointing sideways from the roof.

Fuselage dinged by rocks from the road

and two little wheels sticking up from the van—

now when I tally all the pieces, it seems pretty obvious.

And I wonder if toting it around would be a burden

or more some kind of anti-burden.

Because if you drove around with a plane

you might feel less fettered than the rest of us:

say your life hung around your neck like a concrete Elizabethan ruff

you could always ditch that junker van

and take off rattling down the runway of the road.

But my friends said they’d seen that heap for so long on the road

it was like a knock-knock joke heard twice too often.

You’ll be sorry they said when I went looking for the guy who drove the van,

whom I found in the library, beating the dead horse of his plane.

Once you got him started it was hard to shut him off:

how, if he had field to rise from, he’d fly to Sitka, or Corvallis—

but how does a guy living in a van get a field, you think the IRS

just goes around giving people fields for free? The road

of his thought was labyrinthine and sometimes ended in the rough

of Cambodia or Richard Nixon.

He said a plane in pieces still counts as a plane,

it was still a good plane, it was just a plane on a van.

And of course I liked him better as part and parcel of the van;

the actual guy could drive you nuts.

All his grace depended on his sitting underneath that plane

as it rattles up and down the road

like a train with a missile, a warhead of heavy hydrogen.

Because the van reverts to rubble once the plane takes off.

And if my own life is a plane, it’s like the Spirit of St. Louis—

no windshield, just the vantage of a periscope.

Forward, onward, never look down — at the burden of these roofs and roads.

The prison kennel’s tin roof howls

while the dogs romp outside through the flakes.

The inmates trained a dog to lift my legs—

for months they rolled the concrete floor

in wheelchairs, simulating.

Through a window I watch them cartwheel now,

gray sweatpants rising against the whitened hill

traversed by wire asterisks and coils.

At first I feared they pitied me,

the way I flinched at the building’s smell.

Now the tin roof howls, the lights go off

to the sound of locking doors. Go on, breathe—

no way the machinery of my lungs

is going to plow the county road.

Didn’t I try to run over a guy,

spurned love being the kindling stick that rubbed

against his IOUs? Easy to land here,

anyone could — though I think laughter

would elude me, no matter what the weather.

Compared to calculating how far to the road.

Signs there say: CORRECTIONS CENTER DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS.

My instructions were: Accept no notes or photographs,

and restrict the conversation to such topics as

how to teach the dog to nudge

the light switch with his nose.

Now the women let their snowballs fly — as if

the past were a simple matter that could splat and melt.

Only my red dog turns his head

toward the pines beyond the final fence

before the generator chugs to life.

I couldn’t have waited. By the time you return

it would have rotted on the vine.

So I cut the first tomato into eighths,

salted the pieces in the dusk,

and found the flesh not mealy (like last year)

or bitter,

even when I swallowed the green crown of the stem

that made my throat feel dusty and warm.

Pah. I could have gagged on the sweetness.

The miser accused by her red sums.

Better had I eaten the dirt itself

on this the first night in my life

when I have not been too busy for my loneliness—

at last, it comes.

The weird summer of lightning (to be honest) was not a summer, but a week

when we sat every night in a far corner of the yard

to watch the silver twitch over our drinks.

It may help to know the sky hardly ever spasms here,

which is why we savored the postscript smell of nickel,

ions crisping in the deep fry.

The bolts made everything erogenous, the poppies and the pumpkin vine—

we could hardly bear to leave our watch post

but had tickets for the concert at the pier.

And we could not bear to miss the jam band from our youth,

which we feared discovering lacked talent and looked foolish

in their caveman belt buckles and leather hats.

Whew. That we found in them a soulfulness, an architecture

of tempo changes and chord progressions

left us relieved. Childishly

we hummed along as the sun got gulped down like a vitamin

and boats of cheapskates gathered on the bay.

When the lightning started, it was fearsome and silent

as usual. We were older, we knew this,

but the past proved not to be all suicide and motorcycle accidents.

Here was proof the music had shown some finesse—

even if it pillaged the discographies of black men from the Delta

it did so honorably, erotically, meaning

“that which gathers.” So we held hands and drew near.

And the flashes lit us, when they lit us, in platinum flames:

then we saw, behold, below the bleachers,

a man whose rubber sneaker toe-tips

punctured the darkness as he spun.

He lurched and spun and lurched and fell,

a messenger from the ancient cults

until his stomach’s contents were strobed ruthlessly

once they splattered on the tarmac. Sky says: Rise,

feet say: Heavy. Body would say: Torn in two

if it weren’t already passed out

with all the good Samaritans busy remembering

the words to the tune about the rambling man. Oh

Bacchus, Dionysus, ye Southern rock stars

of antiquity: Thank you for shutting the black door

behind which he vanished, so we could resume

holding each other, like two swigs of mouthwash.

Then the brother who was not dead

played another of our childhood songs.

Because she comes here just a few hours a week, you are lucky

to have found her—

Mrs. Ito, who is ninety-four: you have to bend way down

and speak loudly in her ear.

To ask for the story she floats on these words: wreckage and sky,

the wreckage and sky,

when she tells how her house lost its moorings at dawn

to the shoulders of the surf.

How because she could not swim she clung to a door

and rode it the night

of April Fool’s Day, 1946:

the whole seaward part of town destroyed.

So the museum sits now in the lee of the headland

across from the bus station

where drunks sail to sleep on its wooden benches—

the sun outside has fried them through.

Wreckage and sky, the turmoil and the clarity:

timbers lobbed by the wave-crest

versus the constant stars. Or the wild hair of the drunks

versus this morning’s placid bay.

For sixty years she has sailed on the door

of her story, and now she is sorry

she cannot tell it well enough — she left school to work

in the hotdog plant

years before the wave. Yes,

there were others who survived,

but they were children, so they were quick,

outsprinting the surf—

they did not spend the night

all stretched out on the sea.

Which was a deeper black than you could ever imagine,

though what she says is:

All my friends are dead—

not the wreckage, just the clarity

when you get to be so very old—or in the hospital

with no brains left.

Only me, she says:

she’s the one who was saved.

And then she holds up her index finger, for you

to throw your life ring on.

We turned off the highway at Chuckanut Drive

(everyone told us to turn off at Chuckanut Drive)

where, when we finally slid from the cedars,

the ocean smacked us in the face.

Jane squints down into her steering and talking

(her voice like the hushing of the wet road)

about how her mother fled from the house

(one of the many times he beat her).

How they wore their pajamas into the store

after crossing the parking-lot stripes in their slippers—

see how easy it is to start over

after the hangers screech.

In the motel, there’d always be a picture of the sea

(as if all you needed was the idea of its rocking)—

you feel your life starting over on Chuckanut Drive

(is what made Jane remember).

Our car crept like a grub on the country’s edge,

there on a cliff above Samish Bay:

mountains to the north, mountains to the south,

(& a life equaled)

the huge unbroken water in between.

Her daughter wrote back to say my friend had died

(my friend to whom I wrote a letter maybe twice a year).

From time to time I’d pictured her amid strange foliage

(and in a Mongol yurt, for she was fond of travel).

Why not a flock of something darkening the sky, so we would know

(ah, so-and-so is gone!)?

To a woman from the city, this might perhaps be pigeons

(blacking out the sun).

Or else a human messenger, as once when she was fabric-shopping

(bolt of green silk furled across her body)

Garbo passed, and nodded. At Macy’s years ago

(when I was not a creature in her world).

Of course she bought the cloth, but never sewed the dress

(“a massive stroke, and I take comfort in the fact she felt no pain”).

Logic says we should make omens of our Garbos and our birds

(but which one bears the message? which one just the mess?).

From the kayak, I’ve seen pigeons nesting underneath the pier

(a dim ammoniated stink)

where one flew into my face. I read this as a sign

(that rancid smash of feathers)

but couldn’t fathom what it meant, the bird trapped in the lag time

(of an oracle’s translation).

Foolish mind, wanting to obliterate the lag and why—

(let memory wait to catch up to its sorrow).

What I remember about the famous writer is how

he took the English muffin sleeve from a high shelf,

how he mumbled his apologies

on finding only one stale white puck. How

he blew the cornmeal off

before he forked the halves apart, twisting to loosen them

the way my mother did.

How therefore came a little intermission of memory—

a patch of time he filled by pacing

in front of the toaster-oven window,

lacquered and leaded with grease

like the stained glass of a church.

How I was looking for wisdom, how he was no talker.

How he devoted himself instead to buttering,

palming the muffin-half close to his eye

while the golden glob vanished

into the craters.

How slowly he heaved it with his knife.

Many of the great men — Buddha, Saint Augustine,

Jefferson, Einstein — had a woman and child

they needed to ditch. A little prologue

before the great accomplishments could happen.

From nothing came this bloody turnip

umbilicaled to the once-beloved,

only now she’s transformed like a Hindu god

with an animal snout and too many limbs.

You’d rather board a steamer with chalk dust on your pants

or sit under a bo tree and be pelted by flaming rocks,

renounce the flesh

or ride off on a stallion—

there is no papoose designed for such purposes,

plus the baby would have to be sedated.

Sorry.

We don’t want the future to fall into the hands of the wrong — ists!

That’s how civilization came into being

for us who remained in the doorways of here,

our companions those kids who became chimney sweeps, car thieves,

and makers of lace.

By day we live in the shadows of theories; by night

the moon holds us in its regard

when it doesn’t have more important business

on the back side of the clouds.

Because I’d drunk a lot of coffee on top of some antibiotics

strange ideas were already swimming in my brain

like sharks patrolling their aquarium walls

when I saw those strange rafts circling in the harbor.

Gatling was the word that came to mind

for the machine guns mounted on their turrets,

but Jim said I was wrong. And also:

Great, so now the war comes to Palookaville

while I stood too stymied for a superior thought.

Eventually we turned back from the window

to our task to prove ourselves

not easily deterred:

loading the truck with bags of garbage

so we could take them to the dump.

Styrofoam boxes from the Vietnamese restaurants

by which we are sustained.

We came back dirty, so we washed,

then lay down predictably.

And it seemed oddly synchronous

that I’d just been reading Baudelaire,

who couldn’t stand what sex did to the face. Meanwhile

a big ship slid into port

like a capsule sinking in the throat,

then some jeeps and earthmovers drove aboard.

And why not say we fucked right through it!—

an optimist might say that love prevailed.

But there is another way to look at it:

as greed, the body taking its cut first

(although I didn’t look, I never can stand to look).

Later I thought I saw a frogman in the bay,

but it could have been a seal.

I mean a real seal,

which is to say an animal.

Then, Infamous Reader, comes your turn to say: But we are all animals.

They named the last one Martha,

and she died September 1, 1914, in the Cincinnati Zoo,

she who was once one of so many billions

the sky went dark for days

when they flew past.

Makes me wonder what else could go,

some multitudinous widget like clouds or leaves

or the jellyfish ghosting the water in autumn

or the shore-shards of crushed clams?

Goodbye kisses:

once I had so many of you but now I note

your numbers growing slim—

yesterday a man stood me up in the sea

behind the big rock where the sand dollars live.

And when I said Now we should kiss

it seemed we’d grown too peculiar

and I thought: Oh-ho kisses, are you leaving too

like the man’s hair? Or like

the taut bellies we once had

or the menstrual period that was mine alone—

time flew its coop

our days did skid

and now see my commas going too—

art mimicking life’s mortal nature?

So I did no hem-haw with the man

I told him to grab hold of my ears

since daylight burned

the tide had begun to apply its suction then

the shotguns of our lips turned toward

what was perhaps the last of our wild flock.

They found the missing bride and she is living.

They found the boys floating on the ocean in their little yellow raft.

The ornithologists found the extinct woodpecker

when it flew over their canoe.

Not everyone is convinced, though.

One recording of its distinctive knock turned out to be a gunshot.

A century of Ozark fishermen

said they saw the bird when they were stranded

on their hummocks in the swamp.

Nobody believed them but the catfish in their pails.

Those boys thought their muscles strong enough to paddle against the squall.

And the bride only wanted a bus trip west

before the rest of her life downed her like an olive.

Sometimes survival strikes us dumb

with the improbable story of resurrection;

we see the blossoms smutted on the ground

turning back into a flowering tree. Next year

there’ll be new nettle stalks

to sting your fingers, which you’ll drag

through the serrated leaves to prove

the world has not lost the consolation of its old pain.

For a long time you lay tipped on your side like a bicycle

but now your pedaling has stopped. Already

the mosquitoes have chugged their blisterful of blood

and flown on. Time moves forward,

no cause to weep, I keep reminding myself of this:

the body will accrue its symptoms. And the manuals of style

that warn us not to use the absolutes, are wrong:

the body will always accrue its symptoms.

But shouldn’t there also be some hatchlings within view:

sufficient birth to countervail the death?

At least a zero on the bottom line:

I’m not asking for black integers,

just for nature not to drive our balance into the dirt.

What should we utter over the broken glass that marks your grave?

The bird books give us mating calls but not too many death songs.

And whereas the Jews have their Kaddish and the Tibetans

have their strident prayers, all I’m impelled to do is sweet-talk

the barricades of heaven. Where you my vector

soar already, a sore thumb among the clouds.

Still I can see in the denuded maple one of last year’s nests

waiting to be filled again, a ragged mass of sticks.

Soon the splintered shells will fill it

as your new geeks claim the sky — any burgling

of bloodstreams starts when something yolky breaks.

And I write this as if language could give restitution for the breakage

or make you lift your head from its quilt of wayside trash.

Or retract the mosquito’s proboscis, but that’s language again,

whose five-dollar words not even can unmake you.

How sad it must be in Greece when winter comes,

like Coney Island but with a less-brutal sea,

and what is sadder than a hot dog or souvlaki for that matter

when the last nub of meat slips through the bun

and the girls cover up their gowns so like translucent grocery sacks

caught spookily in trees and I think they’re olive trees

only because I don’t know much about Greece,

how do you expect me to know anything

when the papyri are in such tatters?

In all we have of Sappho’s poems, the silences

come rolling forth like bowling balls:

blank after blank after blank after blank

[to remind us of what’s missing].

Then comes a word like Gongyla or Gorgo,

which sounds like the name of a Japanese movie monster

instead of a girl too lovely

to be eating a hot dog made of useless lips.

But there is no food in Sappho’s poems,

which makes me wonder about every other missing else,

who cooked the meat and carted off the chamber pots

so Sappho could stroll under the olive boughs so unencumbered

by her body, her reputedly squat wrestler’s body,

thereby left free to strum her lyre? I am not saying

it is an easy thing to write a poem that will be remembered

for three thousand years, but it is a harder thing

to build a temple out of rocks. A temple

where the girls will party all-nite

until their gowns start flying off

and into that ferocious silence:

[ ].

Then comes two words intact—

I want

The new guy bought it as a present for his wife

(this a story Jim is telling)—

like a love swing like I think of as a love swing?

Jim uh-huhs: she’ll ride it Christmas morn.

So let us stop to praise the new guy’s paunch,

the dimpling in his wife’s thighs,

though when I ask if I could ride a love swing

Jim says, “I’m afraid your love swing days are through.”

In case of fire, strike chest with hammer

and wind up all the dogs in the neighborhood,

while I zen out trying to remember the name of… ah…

not Leland Stanford but Stanford White:

architect of Madison Square Garden,

where the famous velvet swing hung in his tower studio—

tapestries, sketches, photographs, a hive

of mammoth work and mammoth pleasure

all mashed together in one place.

But it was the swing

that drove jurors wild at the trial

where the killer named Thaw got off the hook

because his young bride Evelyn had ridden it,

laughing and kicking her dainty feet. And I think:

Maybe everybody in America has a love swing,

maybe it’s as common as a jungle gym,

a secret no one has let me in on

until now, when it’s too late. And my next thought

is that I have been all my life a tad repressed,

I mean I prided myself on having been around the block

but I never rode a love swing. Okay:

I’ve bought a costume or two at the department store

that also sells chopped meat and pineapples

where you hide the impractical straps and struts

between gardening gloves and a ream of typing paper

as they roll along the checkout’s conveyor belt

where the bra gets dinged with grease.

But nothing requiring tools, nothing with such

ramifications: the kids pouncing on their bunk beds

while you’re hammering away, I mean hanging it up

so you can kick a paper parasol like the one that Stanford White

hung from the ceiling: fiddle dee dee.

What about the giant hooks?

and Jim says you get two decoy ferns

in silk or plastic, so as not to get dirt on the carpet

and because you don’t want to hang your love swing by the window

where a true living plant could grow.

The new guy bought it at the fantasy emporium

down by Pike Market, choosing the swing

over the hand-stitched ribbon underwear

sold in the boutique next door,

which cost a week’s wages. Jim held out his arms

to indicate the way she’ll hold the ropes—

a posture that made me think of Jesus,

forgive me for saying. But I’m so far gone

I can say anything: Hello Mister Death,

let’s run this bar code through.

Ouch—

that love swing sets you back more than a hundred bucks,

but hey it’s cheaper than the ribbons

and will give you years of sailing back and forth,

hanging from nothing but graveyard fog.

Mounting instructions are included

though they be written in Japanese,

and it even comes in a discreet black shopping bag

to match your — whatever you call it—

your robe your gown.

You were a man and I used to be a woman

before we first put our quarters in

the game at the gas station, whose snack-chip display

wore a film of oil and soot

beside which you turned into a green gargoyle and then

a flying purple lynx—

whereas I could not get the hang of the joystick

and remained as I began

while you kicked my jaw and chopped my spine,

a beating I loved because it meant you were rising

fast through the levels — and the weak glom on

via defeat, which is better than nothing—

insert sound effects here: blip blat ching ching

…and when they stopped, your claws gripped the naked

— looking pink lizard that I was,

blood-striped and ragged, as if being a trophy

were the one reward the vanquished get—

which is why, walking home through the curbside sludge,

when you held my hand with your arm outstretched

as if you were holding a dripping scalp or head,

I hummed with joy to be your spoils.

Silver moth whose wings flap before landing on the ear—

you stir the air with voices

and then a cloud swirls on the jet stream,

causing a typhoon a world away.

I am not happy about having to become a cell phone person,

even though I see the other cell phone people walking

with their necks bent so the sun can reach that lovely place below their ears.

I feel superior, listening to the juncos’ aggravations

with you squirreled in a pocket on my breast

where you beep your ultimatums. That you have a molten look

makes me think that you could seep

into my body, so I’d contain multitudes

like Walt Whitman, all my friends alphabetized

along with the pain clinic, all ruled by that prim mistress

who asks for the codes and is so firm in her denials,

firm in her goodbye. I’d renounce her altogether

did my bones not have their exigencies—

when I fall, you give a little yawn as you unfold,

and then a fireman comes to lift me, muscles rumpling his rubber coat,

and I think that he will never age.

Why can’t the mind simply roll around on its own wheels?

Why can’t the body be rewired like a lamp?

The other cell phone people draw a thread through the world and stitch it close

whereas I go around huffing in a state of irritation

that I take to be the honest state of nature,

which is why I listen to the juncos, though it’s difficult to decode their words.

And though I hold you, Moth, in my contempt, I’ve spoken through you

for enough minutes from what the corporation calls my plan

that your numbers have become infused with my mouth’s smell.

It is not the junco’s bird-smell of vinegar and berries

but that person-smell of roasted meat and sweat,

and I could spray you with disinfectant but that would fry your circuitry—

to wipe away the human would make you go kaput.

All day long the sun is busy, going up and going down,

and the moon is busy, swinging the lasso of its gravity.

And the clouds are busy, metamorphing as they skid—

the vultures are busy, circling in their kettle.

And the river is busy filling up my britches

as I sit meditating in the shallows until my legs go numb.

Upstream I saw salmon arching half into the air:

glossy slabs of muscle I first thought were seals.

They roiled in a deeper pocket of the river,

snagged in a drift net on Indian land.

Trying to leap free before relenting to the net

with a whack of final protest from the battered tail.

They’ll be clubbed, I know, when the net’s hauled up

but if there were no net they’d die anyway when they breed.

You wonder how it feels to them: their ardent drive upstream.

What message is delivered when the eggs release.

A heron sums a theory with one crude croak; the swallows

write page after page of cursive in the air. My own offering

is woozy because when their bodies breached the surface

the sun lit them with a flash that left me blind.

Animal attack is Number One in the list called

“Ways in Which I Do Not Want to Die”—

wait, Ben says knock it off with the death-talk;

you’ve already talked death to death.

But the Number Ones don’t need our speech

to claim their cool dark storage place: my sister said

hers was falling down the stairs, after her husband left

and every riser turned into El Capitan.

Sleeping on the sofa did nothing about the steps

connecting the world to her front porch. Three is more

than enough, given a new moon and tallow on the instep

and the right force-vectors applied to the neck.

I said Relax, you should join a health club

so my sister rowed until she withered to a twig,

and when the office microfiche clerk did fall down the stairs

all that hemoglobin on the cellar floor

sent my sister’s paw back to her popcorn bowl

as she asked the darkness from a fetal pose

about the safety of a pup tent

set up in a housing tract.

Thus do our Number Ones sit on our chests

like sumo wrestlers in lifeboats — rowing rowing.

And some nights in my phantasmagloriland

I am supped by shark or dingo dog or a cannibal king.

Then I am a movie star (if not your classic movie star),

just one of the shriekers who is always beautiful

when her head spins suddenly

and her hair fans.

And what could Numbers Seven or Twelve offer by compare:

those falling-elevator dreams

the fire dreams

the riptide dreams

the dreams of death as a mere phenomenon of weather?

I know my celebrity is fleeting as I thrash and holler and yet

see the moviegoers prick up in their seats:

see the good it does,

how it is not so grim or tragic

when the boy-hand spiders across girl-shouldermeat

and she curls against him

like a pink prawn thawing from the freezer.

Then his hand goes tumbling to her breast—

you see what magic I am giving them

astir in frumpy velvet seats arrayed in front of my disquiet

at this brink this moment when she lets it stay.

Don’t look up, because the ceiling is suffering

some serious violations of the electrical code,

the whole chaotic kelplike mess

about to shower us with flames.

I think I can render this clearly enough—

Bert’s saxophone hanging between his knees,

propped against the wheelchair’s seat

where his body keeps shape-shifting—

he’s Buddha then shop-vac then Buddha again,

formlessness floating on top of form.

The problem is backstory, how to get it all in,

not just Bert’s beanie and tie-dye T-shirt,

but polio too, and the tune itself, concentric ripples

widening. So now I send dead Jim Pepper

rippling out, as well as his grandfather,

fancy-dancing and chanting. How to tender

the lead-in, would phonemes do any good

(the signature DAHH, the doon doons down-marching)—

or just call it a prayer to simplify things

as Bert sends the melody way out

beyond the tidiness of circles?

Then he puts the mouthpiece aside

to bring up the words from the floor of his soul

or say from the pads of his spud-shaped feet

spraddling the footplate, if soul is too hokey

for all the misty goo inside us.

First comes the Creek part of the song

and then comes the English, when Bert throws back his chin:

his underbeard raised in a coyote salute

to the water infusing the warehouse roof.

Here, take a seat on these rickety risers

inside my head, though your life isn’t mine,

still, I have hope for your hearing

the gist of this refrain

about how glad he is that he’s not dead.

From Hartford, from Allentown, they used to send their letters—

the corporate stationery featured the word LIFE.

Somewhere radio towers twinked

and garters held up the socks of men

whose fine print said that if I ever lost my arm in a buzz-saw accident—

boy, that would be the day my ship came in.

So I pictured myself shopping for produce with my feet,

a melon riding on my tarsal bones and money

smoking in my pocket. But this dream-trafficking gave way

to wondering what it took to land in jail—

for steady meals and solitude

and a tin cup to play the bars like a marimba!

You might need enough time to write a book as long as Proust’s,

yet not so much to fire up the chair they call Ol’ Sparky:

so we’re talking a fine calibration here. To elsewhere

my love and I will be speeding in the car

when he’ll clap his ears: Stop I can’t stand any more this Looosha talk!

leaving the steering wheel dangerously unattended

though I tell him many writers think about the hoosegow

as a meditative place. Especially now

when the junk mail comes in photon blips,

say from Mrs. Mobutu Sese Seko needing a little cash to tide her over

and spokespersons for the penis you have to wind on a wheel

like a garden hose. What insurance executive

walks to work anymore while dreaming

up fine print for my lost feet?

There is much to envy in that woman

who flaunts her perfect body on the Key West shore—

yet five thousand dollars still seems like a lot of money,

especially for one of these fingers I don’t use much.

The zoologists who came from Germany

wore bicycle helmets and protective rubber suits.

So as not to be soiled by substances

that alchemize to produce laughter in the human species;

how does that work biochemically is a question

whose answer I have not found yet. But these are men

whose language requires difficult conjugations under any circumstance:

first, there’s the matter of the enema, which ought to come

as no surprise. Because what the news brings us

is often wheelbarrows of dung — suffering,

with photographs. And so long as there is suffering,

there should be also baby elephants — especially this messy,

headlamp-lit calling-forth. The problem lies

in deciding which side to side with: it is natural

to choose the giant rectal thermometer

over the twisted human form,

but is there something cowardly in that comic swerve?

Hurry an elephant

to carry the bundle of my pains,

another with shiny clamps and calipers

and the anodyne of laughter. So there, now I’ve alluded

to my body that grows ever more inert — better not overdo

lest you get scared; the sorrowing world

is way too big. How the zoologists start

is by facing the mirror of her flanks,

that foreboding luscious place where the gray hide

gives way to a zeroing-in of skin as vulnerable as an orchid.

Which is the place to enter, provided you are brave,

brave enough to insert your laser-guided camera

to avoid the two false openings of her “vestibule,”

much like the way of entering death, of giving birth to death,

calling it forth as described in the Tibetan Book.

And are you brave enough to side with laughter

if I face my purplish, raw reflection

and attempt the difficult entry of that chamber where

the seed-pearl of my farce and equally opalescent sorrow

lie waiting?

I don’t know where you rank in my list of killers:

my viral load, my sociopaths, my inattention

on the interstate, where I crane my head after the hawk

and the windshield splatters

into diamonds. Not just thinking about the hawk,

or even merely watching it, I always have to be it for a minute,

just as my mind enters the murderers

for one long flash before it stumbles out.

From your postmortem, you held us fast

while a man said It’s enough as his lungs filled

after being stabbed here near the playground,

before they milled his limbs with power tools

and scattered him beyond retrieval. Too late

to recall your brain, and the fatty white part of your spine,

already delivered to the rendering plant

and melted down into the slurry.

That night is gone and cannot be reassembled

despite my re-imagining the car

with a man dying in its trunk, a car otherwise like any other,

as we could not verify your affliction

for days after you fell. Which left the land in chaos

except for Scatter Creek’s flowing past,

wending without hurry though the coastal range

before it empties rain and blood into Willapa Bay.

Start with one cell, call it a zygote,

call it a diploid that turns into me — fool, petunia, witch.

Samaritan and crow. Endless nouns

I could plug in. And yet my eye

can be told from the world’s other billions of eyeballs

by machines that map the galaxy

of specks and glints that make up its blue ring.

Then how to account for Garfield’s dream

being the same one I’ve dreamed,

except the old woman had a child and the child held a doll

who was a replica of the child?

I think there’s a me in a black veil

who has dreamed it, too

(because the crow is a fool because the witch will presume),

as well as a me who’ll strap explosives to his chest

tomorrow, when he’ll blow himself back

into the disarray of cells.

Dear Assassin:

stay here with me in the dream—

we have only a few more hours of night

to be held together by neither our wife’s nor our mother’s arms.

In Bloomington, Indiana, the librarian lugged it from the archive

in a cardboard box, the kind that long-stemmed roses come in —

there was even tissue paper she unfolded

like someone parting a lover’s blouse

or like the skin of a corpse being peeled by a pathologist,

this librarian who wore white gloves

when she poked her eraser at the braid as if it might explode.

And I made a mental note to write but could not decide if I should start

with the waxy clots of follicle, or the bristle of split ends —

what word to describe the loose strands’ electrostatic web?

I start to write and wander into the tangle of my wondering

whatever happened to that yellow paper-mâché horse

displayed in our dining room where I grew from my pogo stick

into my humid secondary sexual characteristics?

Now it must fertilize a flower bed in some suburban subdivision

erected over the detoxified county dump.

Where rot the archives of the childhoods that we see

our therapists either to remember or to forget.

Because who has as much faith in the past as Sylvia Plath’s mother—

not to mention the muscle mass to lift the boxes?

And how many women leave Bloomington

with plans to write about the hair, which had a hint of purple

like the fuzz extruding from a thistle

when the flower after-blossoms on the green pineapplish nub?

Across America, women wad their paper asteroids

while dusty stallions are being pitched into the trash.

Pitched by widows moving into condominiums

because their daughters have skipped town. And we wonder

if they were just faking their pride in our poor creations,

with legs like bratwursts because I grew too excited

applying the paper strips like a trauma nurse.

Oh we are daughters without daddies

or sufficient antihistamines, drifting off to Bloomington

like spent weeds combing through the air.

Which reminds me — as per the static — how could I have lost it,

that word flyaway.

The whole waiting room

(Neurology Unit, seventh floor)

watches the balloon climb through the city, then turn

down a corridor leading to the sea.

Everyone looks.

And is joined in consensus

about the Happy Objects, overruling all elections.

Even the bad news does not come, not yet.

Later, the freeway:

when the dildo-franchise delivery truck speeds up

with two people painted on its side, sitting in bed

under the halos of their blissed-out brains—

I hoist my thumb like a good citizen.

But the driver has been trained by the corporation

(with a trendy slice of mirror on his eyes)

to sourpuss the glee through which he trolls his simulated genitalia.

Today the inanimate world rises up against him

as it hums without its batteries,

humming louder than the lightboard

where my cerebellum revealed its zones of mist

and its granules of (very bad) dark matter

over which Dr. Kita ran her lovely fingers.

Sixty miles, seven hawks,

after curling down the off-ramp

when the blue T. rex out front of Done-Rite Automotive

suddenly drops its head—

only then am I jabbed by one sharp astral needle.

Until the beast deflates

enough to reveal two men in the process of unpinioning

that vinyl dino with their greasy fingers.

Another day shot, death one spin closer

like the slice of pie that any luck might slide their way —

T. rex exhales one last blue breath,

and when the black palms wave, I wave.