It Sounds Like Bing Crosby Backed Up by Brass (poem)

This song makes me want to dance
in 1944, long-gowned and gloved,
blushed cheek rested on a dark wool suited
shoulder, feeling the sway in the syllables,
the syncopation of words sung
to swelling sounds of horn and harp
and string and piano. Transplanted,
my eyes are closed and I am warm and whole in this
period peace where a nobler war was fought
than would ever be fought again.
There is such tranquility in the swishing
of taffeta and lace, a home spun elegance
found more deeply as musical measures
amble by. I want to be in love
in this dance, this era, this chance
at being something as simple
as present in the embrace
of a slow stepped dance.

Staged. (poem)

The man and woman stand
under a stark white spot
light; they are dressed in black
and posed close enough to look
uncomfortable. This is a stage.
They are the players. This theatre
is silent so when he speaks,
his voice is a knife severing silence.
“This could be more,” he says.
The woman remains blank
and gives the audience shivers.
“You could be more,” she says
and turns to leave him alone
under that light. This is life.
They are living it. This world
offers nothing as he stands stock still
and the audience mills by, into
the night where she left him.

What Happens (poem)

My brain is leaking, liquefied,
down the right side
of my chin, after oozing from my ear,
the quickest drain,
the easiest escape once the matter
has reached its maximum
heat and melted.
This is my lobotomy.
I’ve used my cells for too many
years now and now and now
I barely recall the smell of rain,
the stench of free will,
the overpowering olfactory sensation
of my perceived who what when where.
I am dead. I am no more
the woman you knew before
my essence was baked and reduced
into syrupy nothing. All for what.
I don’t remember anymore, I can’t.
I just nod now. And I smile.
You tell me what for and I will say
yes yes yes yes yes.

Not Constantinople (poem)

for tom and kathryn

Balding under his beret, the man
stood, lofty and leaning, leafing through
cards in plexiglass casing. Off and on
goes the cap and so goes my attitude
about him -- pretension easily added
and subtracted. Then he speaks
to the lady to his left -- Say-la-veeeee --
a thick French drawl. Beret off, pretension
still on. I am strangely dismayed.
Over they come, a curious pair, she, short
and frazzled with a dueling accent
I cannot decipher. The man fans four cards
across my counter and asks, "Way-er kin
I git postcarrrds? She wants 'em." I stare, slightly
stupored, before offering advice that will lead them
out of my store, but only after they give me what
they owe. She starts to dig in her red leather clutch
for what my British tourists call shrapnel, coins
clinking together with unfamiliar clarity.
"They don't take Tuuuurkish money here," he chides
and he winks at me. I take his American
currency and catch a glimpse of his American ID --
California-based. He slides his beret back on
and gives a flick of the wrist wave. "Buh-bye now."
She smiles, strained, and I wonder if they'll find
the postcards they seek. I'll never know, probably,
and that lingers long enough on my mind to write this down.

Today Tomorrow Yesterday

Remember yesterday
when you looked for me in the plaza
(not the stone cobbled plaza or the tidy brick plaza or
the lazy yawning plaza in the movie about Ripley)
and you found me in pieces,
stretched like a marble unrolled from a sack
(balled up and barking inside
but shiny and brilliant on the out)
I remember you asking me on your way into the atmosphere
if you’d find me unrolled from the sack tomorrow
(today)
My answer is yes --
look for me in the plaza
(not the hotel in New York where my boss likes to tell
people she used their toilet)
I’ll be there, the bowling ball with pink and gold lettering
striving to knock down the pins of my foes
and try to delay the premature coming of congested thought
I know when you were here yesterday I smiled a lot
but there’s no saying what tomorrow may bring
Look for me behind glass and seek your reflection
in the palm of my hand -- see your life line? It’s the same as mine
(strange thing to notice
here in the plaza)
You found me again in my usual place
trying desperately to shatter
-- But all I remember is seeing you yesterday

Not even a Poet (poem)

1:30 AM is getting to be
the middle of my goddamn afternoon.

Seems I’ve spent more
pulseless moments pursing lips
and breathing softly
at this vacant hour than
any other, writing poems
about writing poems about writing poems
about writing poems about
writing poems --

And I’m not even a fucking poet.

I wish I could claim
insomnia as the peddler of my wake
but it’s more to do with shifting
siphoned, muddied thoughts of clay
away from the drawbridge
of my brain --

Arming Moses (poem)

Chad wishes that M-16s
could be sold as collectors’ pieces
to be slung over mantles
as trophies of war.
He says Charlton Heston has
some good points about the 2nd
Amendment: Moses gone mad
should be allowed to assemble
a militia, defend the burning bush.
He tells me he doesn’t have
guns anymore but he knows
how to shoot one,
(even though he won’t gut Bambi,
not even for survival).
Another patron turns and says,
“You never hear about a multiple stabbing,”
while Chad talks about re-loading
his hypothetical shot gun
from atop the library.