Last Bender

5.22.96
framed by the shirt
she cannot kiss back
his bad groping taste
between them like a bloom
of ocean algae
with snarling lips his cheeks
roar up and down
red nails in a fist
awkwardly stiff
his hands hang on
to her shoulders

Equinox
the menarche of the dark
is upon the edge
among the trees
who hold their leaves
up to the light
and curl inward
till they redden
the sunflowers’ joy of crimson
hardens into grey
and the seed is pecked
till the stalk stands blind
the wet belly of the earth
squats upon the sky
and the heart pushes blood
into the bowel
fires of autumn burn
the first desire

 
Last Night
Last night
The park was full of bodies
I saw a face
But it was a rock

Sparkling lads
In knickers
Southern ladies
Drinking liquor

CNN spokesmodel
Sitting at Anchor
Pours news from the bottle
Of Post-Human rancor
Her comrade in arms
With the silicon stacks
Discusses the charms
Of cell phones and butt cracks
They have rivals at Fox
And can never relax
During breaks apply Botox
And get a Brazilian wax

Farfalla Press blog has posted a YouTube recording of Weldon Kees reading three poems. Weldon Kees has been a favorite poet of mine for years, since Bill Ford, my formalist adversary, introduced me to him. Farfalla has also put me in their links, so I happily reciprocate. http://farfallapress.blogspot.com/ . The other poet I associate with [...]

Baby’s slain
Now pray for rain

I try to be holistic in my thinking, but it is impossible not to feel that I have a poet brain and a prose brain. There is a lot of counterpoint between them. When I am writing fiction my own poetry seems alien. I either don’t like it, or don’t know how I wrote it. [...]

put down your fiddles
and pick up your guns
for the emperor’s clothes are burning

 
The Sycamore Tree
Not to the sycamore tree
grave of republicans
or the communist party
not to the stones and bricks
or these buildings
or the tangle of ivy
the daffodils or the April
rain that brings them, no white
in the mirror’s face nor black
not to fortune
nor to any state
no flags no familiars
in interstellar spaces
no faceless friend
or beguiling interiors
the moss doesn’t call
the ferns [...]