# You Are Invited to Speak
I want to hear your voice, small in a phone
or hovering large as I lie down. Either way,
your thoughts are in my head,
wearing dresses of your mouth,
and the eyes of your thoughts
blink in the night of how I feel.
I crave the bouncing tide
of your populating ideas.
As with any shore,
connection and contest spark life.
I wake in your words. The rest of me is sleep.
I want all the sounds of your throat,
the feel and smell of the air escaping it,
the clacking and swishing of your language machine.
I succumb to the conspiracy of your neck and face
to communicate. I dream of your lungs:
they’re red, walking through the earth.
Wildflowers throw up purple and pink,
destroying the path through the woods
until there’s only wild,
writhing with your sentences.
# Pornographic Fortune Cookies
eating rose petals instead of drinking tea in bed
blackbirds murmuring in bed
a man killed by lightning plowing circles in bed
pale geography collapsed over a map in bed
you will be sick for the entire life of a dog in bed
your arm gone numb in bed
night-headed windows in bed
an empty sagging bed in bed
# The Dreams That You Dare to Dream
Last night, Mama, I dreamed about a rainbow,
it was curving, like a rainbow does,
but it kept curving, like a big old snake,
it wrapped around my head, Mama,
so I ate it, to save myself.
Listen to this dream, Sid, this fellow,
this gentleman, he was calling on me,
you know, calling on me, I suppose
he was courting me, yes that must have been
what he was doing, I don’t know who he was,
you know his eyes were painted on
and I suppose I wasn’t being very
friendly, you know, and he was crying,
nothing loud or dramatic, but these tears, Sid,
these tears were falling and they were perfect,
perfect crystals, no, but they were round,
like crystal pearls, imagine that,
and I felt it so vividly,
swallowing every one.
You were there, Mickey, only shorter
and you danced like you were laughing
with your feet,
on these big curving stairs,
up, tapping like rain,
and down, like a river,
and up, and down, I said please stop
but when I moved my mouth the stairs
started chewing you, like some strange
kind of applause.
# Venice a Be Verb
Thousands of pigeons landing in St. Mark’s Square
maidens tying grey handkerchiefs into their hair.
Sunset peeling the skin from a city braced for night
an old doge whose wheeled pedestal retreats from sight.
Spiders surprised when the ribbons shift
your fingers, slow to open my gift.
# Poetry Law
You never hear of it until you need it,
believing there are no rules,
only expression of feeling and self,
but then a car door closes across the street,
a calamitous feelingless physics
demanding to be written without a hint of you,
and then what to do?
What is the cogent terror
of sunshine on a Buick window?
The Universe idles –
a sharp, specific devastation of insight
purring your own pointlessness
all the way through to the church of your skull,
ringing out a poem that the moon wrote,
but it bears your name.
Gently, you enter into suit,
serving tender notices,
waiting in a series of rooms
for a ruling on a contract
you signed in your sleep,
that was as blank as you were,
and you wonder if the gavel will wake you
or nail you to the page.
# Springtime for Truth
People whose only discernible goal
tap their knuckles on felt partitions
as they flash past the gaps.
I wonder if someone can die more than once.
I realize I can’t disprove it.
I make some measurements in the window
and then go down to the parking lot,
in the placement of trees and buildings,
enforcing a disbelief in other windows
to worlds I can’t get to.
The truth lies
on a bed of facts
more numerous than spark plugs,
and more charged.
The graphic designer across the aisle
erased her design
when she saw a swastika emerge from it.
She hasn’t really looked
at her rug, her favorite blanket,
or the tile floor in her bathroom.
The letter Q is a cross hugging itself.
Truth is a question, a quest, a quake,
a quiz I take so seriously
Tonight I must watch a movie
that’s more than 24 hours long
to know the truth
before it changes tomorrow.
Anon is soon.
The up and down of a pointless day
pulses like the heart of a coward.
Disappointment is surrender.
Fear is victory in the bloodstream
searching for a wound to exit.
The oblivion of winter
pushes me to slump into it,
begs me to ball myself up
and sculpt a frozen version,
but I’m not the snow.
I’m the plow.
The only postmodernism that still matters
is pasted to my AR-15.
This machine kills the un-alternative.
The truth lies
with a deep cover operative,
with dead leaves. No spin,
no election, will deter me.