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wicca

sorry brother I
don’t play the bongos I’m
not Jack Lemmon I’m
more Kim Novak in a
turtleneck sweater in
New York snowbound at
Christmas seducing Jimmy Stewart who
should be on PBS living a
wonderful life over &
over until every citizen with a
television set has
coughed up an
extra buck for public
broadcasting until the lights of
America shutter arc & fuse some
New Years Eve close to 2020 &
every bongo player from
here to the moon speckled
skies over hell converge in the
dark with snow up to their
arses & beat out silent
night holy night like code like
words down a wire to a
terminus abandoned in hysteria as
the city shakes itself like a
head of long long hair

October

here we will build apartments
memory wheels turning
like engines the
windows of small faces
working at tables on
rainy days on
grand things the
work of evidence
a friend come to say she’s
left a hateful lover
here will be built room next to room of
songs written in youth &
wept over when
later they are found by aging eyes
on a day when the sun visits
briefly the planet at a sad angle
here we will build hallways from disaster
to deep sounding melancholy
where the fine wrecks rest and catch the floss of
blindly launched loves
in the currents now lost
like ghosts
here will be built days with
stone & mortar
of loss lined between
memorial & surrender
here will be written names

Jupiter

off-season & we
have parked the Lincoln on the
shores of Jupiter there is
methane madness & a
serial undertow beyond the
swirl of beach the
weed bullied crust of parking lot 

cannibals may be watching for
we are plump & sluggish in this
gravity that bends the light of the
dash board absorbs the songs of
Lyle Lovett holds heavy my
arm upon your shoulder like a
drive-in awkward adolescent                                     

rings
round the perimeter of this place they’re
hard to see from here but we have
assurances of their existence confining this
possession of theirs in
ochre & blue like a sand painting perfectly
circular days vertical &
thin as the rim of a china cup

olive poem

echo
needs an obstruction a
tangible in its path to
qualify 

monster
takes the shape of a shade tree
standing still as a century dropping
precious olives into
the hands of women
old women wooden handed
earth hands bent backs black
widow veiled their
mouths tasting of
communion tasting of
their salty men spit
out the stones that
fill the graves of their children 

echo
is a reckless
flyer touching down it
taxis through the valleys colliding
with obstacles dead
ends women of
salt & wood & earth
pillars
their flesh disqualified by
monster standing still as a century
dropping myth
like precious olives

the detox of the lady

she wrote the world in lipstick
on a pond like a lady’s room mirror  

I am the moment & the
conversation
betrayed by my cells my
genes my
purple grey matter matted &
gnarled upon itself in stalemate a
fused street fight encased in
blood that’s screaming for a drink 

give me anything amber & still like
a calmed & alien ocean that
ten thousand suns penetrate to its
monster depth