do you clap when it arrives in crumpled
corrugated cardboard dropped on the steps
of your demand and expectation—me?
I long to hear the soft song of
the box cutter the little sigh
as light uncovers the gifts of darkness
but enough of my many weaknesses
let’s upgrade our kitchens hats and bookshelves
lounge in the recycled air gulp supplements
unthinking of the debt and folks living
in fire and try to laugh since we never
got the hang of writing protest songs
since the selfie came out blurry
giving that mosquito my cheek
to suck its snack while the old crows
guffawed my self-promotion by
the abandoned railroad tracks may
not have been my finest moment
so in this phlegmy rain I wait
for the final ferry and this
may be the encephalitis
talking but I feel I grow fat
or waste on the food of strangers’
thumbs as I grope
in the dark for
a light so you
can learn my name
skimmed emails we deleted too quickly
may have mentioned the forest of bright spears
and ships ready to launch, but once we saw the
reports on the quarterly report from
Ichthyosaur & Associates we
had no doubt what they were up to with those
color-shifting lobbyists and gift baskets
reeking of brine and though they wrote of missed
opportunities no one missed the flotsam
flecked with blood, tossed by ceaseless waves that could
break on our belovèd beans just learning
to climb towards those heavy clouds pierced by sun—
he stopped, mumbled something roses fingers
dawn and walked away from the empty chairs
with false starts buzzing around my head what do I do do I recall one fly I cut in half with a glass while trying to trap and free it—then sculpt some little line to be stomped bloodless by the sound of boots on the ceiling—so do I then try to persist with this misty I and words like persist—but to speak plainly there is no window in which to speak plainly about a small flower past my boots that I wish could fly into colors that open a window into a land where I could lie…
but now I’m cut in half and half of me
may persist and maybe that I will fly
with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves
Well, e-chapbook, really. I’ve been working very hard on this little collection of a dozen sonnets and I’m glad to say that they’re finally ready.
Here’s a sample. Enjoy!
we ran out of gas before we got there
metaphorically of course the car was
just an ancient generation’s notion
of freedom or some such so later when
we seemed to be writing a story for
the new employer on the optimal
monetization of the eternal
memes (to avoid the friends convenience made—
their brotips and conversations like photos
of completely uncluttered interiors)
we made a slow-motion escape attempt
but were swallowed by the slothy summer
and rose at noon to find the cicadas
gleefully gone on their fatal picnic
Check out my books page if you want to see more.
other animals 