I
Find your poetic voice
in archaic technology
how about a sales call
in the television ad streaming on low
loading endless circles
in the dusty user manual of the Dryer
Remove the Lint Tray or a fire will burn your house
down. All’s I wanted was the spin cycle
to work this time let it air dry.
I remember, do you? — hanging clothes on little lines
String so twine and wire taught and untaught
breezes making it hard for the sheets
is it in the basket for the basket?
of clips randomly gathered here today
funeral of plastic and wood in my memory
For I can’t remember what colors they were
or where we got them — they were just already there
you know how some things just are there
just exist — like all those objects people
leave behind when they move.
II
Not much mention of Anything Goes
You sure make a strong argument for someone so indecisive
In fact, your lack of ability to make a choice
has me wondering if there really is such a thing
as free will
mind you — the world is full of nonchoices
even if we like to think we are in control.
I guess that’s why they say “money talks”
yapping all the time isn’t it?
Well, I’ll be damned if my first thought
is my best thought — for some that’s good
enough: when people get paid. But nay,
not for a true artist — we won’t break through
until the eight-ninth revision because it will
be miracle thoughts if they can impress a reader
enough to make some cash
I work a little then go to bed
Tomorrow will be the same disappointment
III
You’re so busy being you
I can’t stand the great divide
some big bang sometimes creating the universe
doesn’t feel enough
Swamp water was the magic soup
horseshoe crabs still exist
surely they must feel redundant
and deja-vu on the daily
your sky is unbelievable
uptown where the city is clean
power lines tucked away
buried like my grandfather
six feet down
no one sees the tangled mess
that way no one pays attention
to the physicality of electricity
How ugly it is.
IV
What side of the country are you on?
Whole world gone mad
bodies and bills debt wreck me now
bout to burst the bubble baby
boomers bloated do it in boats
Let’s do it.
There’s no U in this SA
Pissed off drunkards, beer calm me down.
What way out of these hard times politicking
This blood bath abroad ain’t nobody seeing.
Phone feeding breasts and babies war crimes
and skin care for a brighter sun
a brighter tomorrow gonna take us all
to the mega-church that no one goes to
parking lot — industrial shed with bad dad rock
for a band drinking all the Welch’s thinking it’s wine.
V
I breathe sound into your head
like Zeus yelling ‘what’s for dinner?’
The old Greek chorus has an introduction
forty voices all saying you’re going to Hades
Not good enough for lightning bolts to rest
snug on your head like a Jesus crown
Healing mosquito bites all over your body
the bumps turn to bruises — you scratch
deeper than the skin flakes allow
I’m still breathing sounds, but you’ve taken
me off your ears no muff
You never listen and yet you spent
two hundred dollars for a proper soundstage
Time the gods moved on, Dharma’s on the phone
wasting away on you
I was enlightened once but forgot
what it felt like
I can’t talk back.
VI
Get in the groove, the flow, esteemed official yoga stretch
make your future with no doors and no money
count your blessings like laundry piled on a chair
higher the stack the greater the stench
swim backwards a whale is breaching the water
Body slam like a wrestler from the 50s.
Some wept and some yelled out the victor’s name
Alone the time goes — the loneliest of all are seconds.
Each on only gets one moment
by the time it reaches the present it has already passed.
At least minutes and hours have a community — a grouping.
And how the seconds swam from distant shores
an internal map guiding them to reach us
from the furthest possible reaches of the universe
we experienced that specific second.
Like the impossibility of appreciating next-to-nul chances
I can’t comprehend my own birth
and how unlikely it all was.
VII
From porch to porch, we sing halfhearted carols
This year feels dead inside like no one wants to be here
I watched you hold a note like a crow
Over the Ohio River, it was not lost on me.
My pop feels flat — would some time pump air
bubbles into my throat?
Rain patters explode on my hair strands
they slide down in fragments like ants on grasses
standing in water
no songs are beautiful if the melody
doesn’t fit your voice — if the lyrics
don’t speak about you.
I can’t look at paintings anymore
they only remind me of my failures
I tried to be wise, but like a child or
an old man, I am saddened by my own irrelevance.