This
tree,
a
furious machine,
spewing
blossoms about
its
face. And fruit, obscene,
demeans
birds who pick out
with
rancid shouts
the
limits they can glean.
Root
splines overrule
the
soil’s fallow pact,
and
thylakoids in leaves
deceive
light, extract
photons
and stack
up
throbbing molecules.
Though
engine appears
to
sleep, its pore-exhaust
will
soak into our night.
Upright,
bole burns frost
so
no fuel’s lost
in
deciduous gears.
Profit
of breath is mine.
My
greedy instrument
consumes
as its bond
beyond
what it can vent,
and
never content
with
either air or time.
Security
My
crank radio wound to its utmost, I ease
into
the smoke-lacquered cab to oversee
a
construction site through its night scree.
Static
cranes, stark girders — it’s these
I
guard by flashlight, flip phone, brass keys.
After
final newsbreak, fade-in with spooky
intervals,
and this episode’s keen guest: he
solders
words into a fine wire breeze,
segues
from stone age to neutrino quarks.
Remote
viewing. Ghost ledgers. And Ouija
credos.
Wrap up with Earth’s ballooning core.
I
haven’t slept in dark for years, but my work
of
sitting watch from dead hours to sun debris
allows
airwaves to mute my brain’s bed roar.
All-Ages Show, 1999
Slam-dance riot;
stropped elbows seek the jaw.
The Neckers squall in
Carpenters’ Union Hall.
Teen punks pissed in
alleys, our hair like saws.
Slam-dance riot:
stropped elbows greet the jaw.
To practice or sign
to a label’s against the law.
Set’s done when your
drummer begs for a brawl.
Slam-dance riot.
Stropped elbow quits my jaw.
King Rats spew at the
Carpenters’ Union Hall.
A Frame
for Ron Martin
They
say the first time you do it is a mess.
Five-hole,
they’re right. I pounded with a crew
those
studs that will abide just south of true.
Joists,
sills, headers of our frame under stress
of
inexperience erected an edifice you’d guess
hung
by drunkards, addicts, those with screws
well
past loose. Again, on the nail. We blew
cigarette
crows from nostrils, stooped to bless
bungalow
sprouting at edge of endlessness,
and
saw its future, owned by the likes of you,
gratefully
guileless of novice hands that glue
boards
just enough to turn backs on success,
then
head home, blotting tissue with alcohol,
and
shrewd enough to never look inside a wall.
Formula
Carrots, pasta,
grapes, and water.
Lego, Minecraft,
Harry Potter.
Bicker, settle,
make-believing.
Giggle, gloating,
grudges, grieving.
Freckles, iris,
blood type, skin tone.
Carefree, anxious,
accident-prone.
Mirrors, puzzles,
son and daughter.
Carrots, pasta,
peas, and water.
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