Three Poems

.
This is Autumn

This goes without saying:
Crack the book,
Climb, giggle, cry.
Elope with me.
Mendelssohn flashback
preamble dimmer wafting windrow,
strings, hours, woods.
Roll up the swather—
This is the end of Genesis:

Where petals riding upon leaves
As Greek Gods in chlorophyll chariots
Descend long paths in a history to nowhere,
Wonders of the world in time,
Abandoned great walls and feats of stone;
Looming towers and languages
disconnected—

Discovered as if lost and yet the desire to reconnect
Seems inherited, like gold between green and brown;
Created as bronze Amish fashion,
Fascinating as heavy blue stitch velour,
and Coco couture;

Ignoring Junket’s throne by which they created
With the bleach of wicked tears that sting the lips of lovers
One to the other, symbiotic, recycled,
The chaff forgotten;
And one a new name, slipped past and under
The falling curtain of the day.

Have they forgotten something,
something that seems to matter?
Did they analyze and devise so strictly,
So hubris and haughty, that the head has
left the body?

Because they ache, have they lost their keys—
is it something they have missed?
Because of want, are they remiss—
too desperate to see the coming freeze?

Why have they not named her?
Why not, this milky calf of Gaia, wallflower,
Blurry hero, black hole piercing,
Early riser, living in amber-glow beacon
of summer’s dying embers?

She sleeps cool to the touch in xanthophylls,
Waiting for a kiss.

But they will have nothing of it—
Nothing of it at all to atone,
Until they need her seed, then let it be so.
They have head lights, power seats, and steroid grocery stores.
They have gas to get and traffic to flow.
…Today, they’ll be in paradise.

Her movements do not move them—
A forest fire, fire without breath means absolutely nothing.
Tragedy is man’s doing.
What would an earthquake do without you?

The world, the harvest ignores—
Orphan grief, faceless whore;
Degas girl standing opposite interior door,
With one and only shiny, dry tear;
Rumored pregnant, sickly green, with wormy holes.

Anthocyan box seat witness to self-destruction,
Self-future-torn, self-poisoning, self-riotous,
Self-centered,
Selfish planet train wreck; ashamed to name you.

The scythe is named among tools, to go even
Unto death. That which makes the swing
Knows the moon; presiding for a moment
On sudden, lonely redoubts where men cease writhing;
Marked by glorious ribbons, patches, and pins—
Calling ghostly families,
and swallowing for home.

Even aboard instant calamity, transfixed view of heaven
From heaven of her; dark traveler in limbo,
Choosing her over home; ending with lit up smiles
in a trail of solid fuel;

Or, in semi-private room, divider set sheers and lots drawn,
Late between shifts, past visiting hours; basked expiration
in comforting luminous flux.

…Can she not be named beyond these harvests?

There are too many trees on TV,
And too many working honey bees to break the spell
Of cataracts and lover’s smells.

A wedding dress by Nike;
Swans and ice cream cones
Standing brain-frozen and sticky-handed
In the grimy air that is embarrassment and Lohengren.
Glow sticks bouncing in the night, twisting and turning;
A dilated majorette leading a blacklit techno band.

The spun spectral language of the planchette,
The permanent protection flax scent of strong Wicca,
The orange chill of Sleepy Hallow dinner parties,
And the chase of the gilded nye.

The purged orchard falls, the vines stare vacant,
And the roots withdraw. It is the battlefield they saw,
Across the wall in cyber malls; where the last child
Who played under street lights is dead to the .wav of SimCity,
Eulogized in an instant message:

and then u and then they
and then he goes
and then they and then he
and then she and then im
and then she and then he
and then i go and then she
goes and they all
and he goes and u go and im all
was sed wat sed i sed
wat sed i herd wat sed
u herd wat sed
he sed she sed they sed
i sed wat they sed :-) lol

We will be talking of this meme, this evolution
We have seen in carotene.
We will blather on in air polluted fashion,
And narrow skies of carrier pigeons.

Did Carthage advance this form?
Gravid season pains, Apgar shaman waits
For the coroner of civilization to procreate.

We are mythology, with low rated telethons,
And nearshore carapaces boarding
Selective societies.

Soon, a garish charge to see the stars
On a sky-cast silver screen,
And the moon will be ten dollars, with photo ID.

She is pale, bland, and sad like us…

And apathy will dismiss it all, as the grasshopper did,
Ignoring his haul, instead playing all summer,
And through the fall; where his dignity slipped,
And he ate up the ants that winter
For dinner.


Comet Carpooling

succulent
desert lust—
coyote and
javelina
in moonlit
river bottom
cruising
pass quail eggs
silent as stones
hear crickets
count temperature
hot and fast
under saguaro
silhouette
sits solitary
truck-bed
beneath cosmic
night lights
staining the world
deep blue
and shimmer
sweat gets sucked
up into
desiccating
skies
dry winds
chap skin—
this is
desert love
and comet
carpooling


Travelers

the elements
so smooth
so thoughtful

lullaby sea
air
and land

without
schedules
or reactions

bigger than
rocketing around
the sun

kept from
space sickness
by transom

grandness is
universal
grandness is
universe

it’s all night we really
travel
when the sky blinks


Green Lake

I hear the crooner catching air
with a loose fin at the surface
of the still lake; a sudden decibel
leap from muffled and murky
bastion of sonar, to the lively
and lit face of the earth’s
aquatic domain.

I hear the way he strikes
his flagrant note atop shallow
water, combining the right
amount of phrasing with heavy
summer air; knowing that he
is prime, youthful and daring.

Perhaps he performs for me
and the outer world, trumpeting
a new existence; exploding
with hidden color, the touch of nirvana.

Or is it for his ilk?

He a sacrifice, the son fish
Finishing school and moving on;
the Pisces shrouded in secrecy
and clouded in thick watery
shades of brown and dense green.

Nevertheless, all that remain
and the only evidence of his recital
are the steady rhythmic ripples lapping
the nearby shore; the signature
graffito, the rapture—

gone.

Building Season
For F James Hartnell

I saw a place that lived and died—
Where crows flew in the same constellation
As years before, and mothers
Collected mechanical memories
Fastened to rings and scarves,
While wives read letters and cursed their Gods.

Daughters and sons fixed buttons to holes,
And dogs reminisced on obedient scents—
Searching a final command
Amongst scattered stone cold masters.
Projected in my mind, the tactile
Rock and sweat, the muddy earth,
Mopped grass tufts and raked coal scuppers
Leaning two sides instead of four,
And a shaken tower facade
Shaping the broken landscape.

The tracks ended abruptly,
They fell in a swirl of weapons and fists,
Of boots and metal and markers.
Steamy rusted blood had waft its last
Across soggy open pitch
Where cemeteries claimed their place
Rising from the mire, plotted
Upon the wake of will and weapon.
Last April they washed them clean,
Hauling away men’s stones.

I watched the signs of fortification
Stir across the space with attrition,
Precision and blind religious faith—
Ten more feet by November
And every year is antebellum,
This place filled with holes
And roads piled high with bones
And ancient standards desecrated—
Time does not heal these.

I saw the murder flying through the pasty sky,
Felt the icy clay in my fists go numb,
And cold gauzy darkness overcome.
On my fixed horizon loomed Alcazar,
Built by Tantilian soldiers.
Three quarters is not enough
To save men’s souls,
Yet two more seasons at least were needed
To groom the boys as men.

McDonald's Farm Sex Tape

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Main Farm Computer

e i e i o
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Dream Moves 2

There is a Sarbo net out
on the water
and it is real.
The cutter told the story.
In court she was
modern, the Queen.
That's not common
nor should it be.

There is a Colos bar
floating on the water
and it is real.
The crew motto strands
while wake boarding sculls.
Only elite was she
modern, the runner.
That's not common
or should it be?

There is a poem pit out there
filled with water.

Dream Moves 1

She was so intimidating--
Her hair and her
Breasts bragging
Her wonders a camera
Trained upon me as
I made my move

Which was a combination
Of moves

The first move was for
Myself
To get under the
Camera's periphery
Where I could
Make the rest of my
Moves in private

She was Medusa without
The snakes and without
The terrible face
She was a Fergilicious
Medusa

With wavy stranded locks
Cascading from the part
At the center of her scalp

Never-the-less if I did
Not make my first move
I would surely be turned
To stone...I would be
Stone
And then the
Other moves would be moot
Even if I managed to
Pull them off

Then the next move
Would be to touch--
Just above her hips at
The waist I would
Move her to me even
Though the intimidation
Wave lengths were
Bombarding my brain
As if her body could
Climb my cortex and
Stare at my thoughts

If she did this, she
Would see my thoughts
Which would reveal my
Still meager confidence
In what I was doing

Now I needed my third
Move which varied

This time the lips were
My third move--
As I continued to shield
Myself from the force field
Of her Medusian body-stare
I dipped and dove at her lips

Who doesn't like a kiss?

The rest was all improvisational
As we both transformed
The grandeur of her
Wonders into a heat wave
Of skin tugging and grabbing
And miniature lip bumper cars
As we battled back and forth
In feeble attempts to
Intimidate each other

We intimidated each other
For hours

When we finished and I
Re-dressed myself
Somehow I was wearing
Her intimidation
I had no other choice
But to let her make
Her moves on me

Happy New Year, Y'all!