Poem for Sunday, June 6, 2010

We Brought the Rain

to Mongolia, which
means good luck from G.K.
so
the olive hills of Zuunmod
will be a little
greener

Poem for Monday, May 31, 2010

I Prayed for You

last night

but a number of things prevented
you from seeing it: partitions of
cigarette smoke, a lack of decent
street lights

your cataracts, and because
I did it in my mind.

What's amazing is how
you can go eons without a
single divine thought, but
"Dear God" is

the most
abused
utterance
ever.

I prayed for you, prayed
that you would keep
outliving me

(disclaimer:
not my will, but thine)

after I die
at age, say, 100.

Poem for Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Found Poems # 9-10

9.

for your chance to win a
virulent diamond
envision an eye exam and
contact lens discounts
on the schoolroom
windowpane

and sail on

10.

Andrewshek's Auntie Katushka:
sitcom buffoon
the real Messiah
city that is set on a hill
multi-color;

Samuel, the Lamanite:
refurbished
available to visit with you
2.4 GHz
multi-color

Poem for Sunday, May 23, 2010

A Thought in Memphis

The Blues have been collecting dust for
years
in Malcolm Bart's record store
on Beale

I'm starting to think Lightnin' Hopkins
didn't die of cancer
but suffocated in a plastic bin
choked
on "Lonesome Dog Boogie"

Oh, anyone can walk that street
in Memphis
gulp that BIG ASS beer
snapshoot
their sunlit faces beneath the
half-glow of neon signs

Anyone
can backflip for bucket change
distribute food flyers
go back to their hotel and
claim to have had
some revelation

But only a bluesy few
give a damn
about Malcolm's
about Lightnin' and the rest
about anything besides
an Elvis snowglobe

(no offense
to the King)

Poem for Sunday, May 16, 2010

The Chapel Bells

ding-donged songs
of the Savior

to just one
receptive vessel

(I was smoking a
cigarette on
a strange porch).

they clanged, echoed
twelve times

saluting either noon
or dead disciples

(Judas Iscariot
had the faintest
resonance).

the ringing ceased
with time and

distance is all
I felt

(time, distance
x and y

...gone).

Poem for Thursday, May 6, 2010

Things I Won't Forget

the smell of department stores

the name of my favorite teacher

every time I bloomed in autumn

(you lingered until the end

of springtime then left)

my first bumpy driving lesson

the taste of busted-lip blood

every time I shriveled in winter

(you forgot me a little more

with each new forget-me-not)

how the seasons come and go

and

the smell of department stores

(of course)

Poem for Sunday, May 2, 2010

Earth in Adolescence

I.

a few weeks ago

those pesky pimples tore

through her Icelandic

forehead skin

thanks to Clearasil

neglect

she popped them herself

against the sky (her

mirror) & they oozed

magmatic puss

making her feel

quite ugly

II.

her monthly cycle

rolled through with

vengeance

as she helplessly bled

black down her

briny coastline

reports say the BP

phallus will be

pumping

thousands of barrels

each day until a

presidential tampon

blocks it

III.

she is convinced

she is too fat

with her six-billion-

people-belly so

she refuses food

in her

African regions

but at midnight

she raids her

American

fridges for apple pie

à la mode & by

morning it's gone

(where does it go)

Poem for Thursday, April 29, 2010

Goddamn Papers

Big man in tan sounded off the red and
blue while Pepé was coming home
from the fields just outside of

torrid Tucson.

Big man asked Pepé for his
"goddamn papers"; Pepé reached
in his glove compartment

aggrievedly.

Third time stopped in a week, twice
by Big man. Pepé thought about
his wife's hominy stew

growing cold.

He wondered how he could pass his
citizenship test on the first try but
couldn't pass an intersection

without being stopped.

Big man eyeballed Pepé's papers, stupid
as an aimless child gazing agape at
the sun, then tossed them

through the car window.

Big man scratched his crotch, said,
"Welcome to 'merica." Pepé had lived
there for ten years, and this was

his first welcome.

Poem for Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Dry County Blues

Lonoke County, Arkansas:

where every day is a
rainy Sunday

and the bottles and cans
from Pulaski

float

down the ditches
clueless

as Baby Moses
in his basket

Poem for Sunday, April 25, 2010

The Carpenter

told me that my porch posts were bleeding
sap, and sure enough, they were.

He pointed to the sticky amber spots that
had pushed through the white Dutch Boy
like an infant through the jungle of muscles.

"Know what's causin' that?" he asked.

I shook my head, looking at his scabby, sun-
beaten hands, smelling the impending
storm.

"No, I don't."

He brushed his thumb over a knot the
size of a nickel on the opposite side of
the post, smiling.

"This knot right here," he said.

His words harmonized with a soughing
wind: inspect the wood, dry it out,
use water-based paint.

They were not majestic, but they
were honest.

I glanced at his shirt pockets, convex
and unsnapped; one contained a church
bulletin, the other a pack of cigarettes.

"People told me I should've been a
carpenter all my life," he uttered while
fumbling for a smoke.

And after that, the wind grew bold,
racing through my hair and clothes.
The charcoal clouds began to collide.

The carpenter knew he had to call it
a day, so he left with a brisk goodbye.

Crossing the street, he went inside
his securely built house.

I watched him from mine.

Poem for Saturday, April 17, 2010

Said Idi

in a country
where the price of a chicken
surpassed the price
of a human being, an ogreish
child addressed the Ugandans:

I may wear a general's uniform,

said Idi,
in English tongue, English medals,

but I am the same as you,

said Idi,
in African accent, African heart

the Ugandans cheered
in Ateso, chanted in Lusoga,
lifted their staffs
to the sun and silenced again
for the general's words:

Obote and his men have left,

said Idi,
on the cusp of celebration,

so we can now live in peace,

said Idi,
hands clean of blood at the time

but as time consumed
the next ten years, hundreds of
thousands were fed
to crocodiles while chickens
pecked at the dirt

the Ugandans bled
because the child was afraid
there were monsters
hiding
in his palatial closets:

I know when I will die,

said Idi,
breathing heavy and still,

I saw this in a dream,

said Idi,
a visionary among everything else,

but they are trying to kill me,

screamed Idi,

they are trying to kill me!

Poem for Monday, April 12, 2010

Nuremberg, 1946

before a long sleek table sat

americans soviets british french

the same hovered around

a prosecution table

cut from schwarzwald wood

during the

good old days

&

twenty-four men

each had their day to

march into the court

methodically

as they had done

throughout the

Jewish ghettos

keitel smoked his last cigarettes during recess

dönitz thought about his brief presidency

göring played god, dined on cyanide

and

so

on

Poem for Monday, April 5, 2010

Easter Sunday

While children found the last of their

pink eggs among the grass and

tree branches,

while the evening hymns droned

from the palates of old

women and men,

while mothers and wives plopped

the leftover pot roast on their

second-best china sets,

while adamant shoppers

bought next year's decorations

for fractioned prices,

while men and women sweated

in giant white rabbit suits

for the last hour,

while all

of this

happened,

a man told me

just how much

blood

the Son of God lost:

all 3.5 liters

Jesus,

I thought we had

more blood

than that

Poem for Friday, April 2, 2010

Bar Girl

cherry jello-stained tongue

34 C

particularly flirtatious

Poem for Monday, March 29, 2010

Lunar Continents

full moon night--

i see the lunar continents etched from humble

earth (the man is hiding for now),

antarctica curving

at the base,

africa full of

craters.

i see australia overlooking my neighbors'

apartments

europe shining

avant-garde-like

east of a milky

atlantic.

i see south america and asia on either side

of the equator (can't imagine the tropics

on the moon).

i zoom in

on north america,

spot you

frolicking

in a random field with sun chips and

echinacea,

content

to

be

anywhere.

Poem for Friday, March 26, 2010

To My Shabti

Please take

my

rocks, my

sickle

& even

my sweat;

Please tell

Osiris

I called

in dead

(he should

know).

Poem for Sunday, March 21, 2010

The Irony of Wood

Around the sleek maple axe handle

the contours of calloused hands

tighten

muscles

contract joints become geometric

with the weight of the iron head

lifting slowly over the shoulder

arcing

the motion of an oil drill

the motion of potential energy

(which in itself is irony)

and then

a thundering

fall

* * *

bulls-eyed in the concentric circles

of a severed tree trunk

stands another piece of

maple

still clothed

with bark and sap a shadow

looming over

sharp and indiscriminate shadow

darkening over the lonely

piece of wood

(two pieces of wood in two seconds)

another

axe handle

born

Poem for Thursday, March 18, 2010

In Lieu of a Porch Swing

a futon sits, motionless, covered

in white silk.

It serves many purposes:

a place to sit for the bone-weary

a place to read, if that's your thing

a place to draw the imaginary line

where you fold the porch in half

Before the futon is a makeshift

coffee table, also white.

On top are four evenly spaced candles

orbiting an indigo vase--perfect

for an afternoon seance.

And if the sun's rays could creep up

the concrete right now, that futon

would shine like God;

I would be here, at my desk, devouring

a banana in the middle of rapture.

But the sun's reach is limited,

so the cutesy white furniture

fades to gray in abrupt shadows;

I would still be here, staring at a veiny

banana peel at the cusp of tribulation.

In lieu of a porch swing,

a futon

(let's sit

and watch

the apocalypse).

Poem for Monday, March 15, 2010

This poem is a no-holds-barred collaboration attempt by Kevin Lenners and myself; we alternated after one word each. I thought of Lewis Carroll, and you'll see why.

III. (Better Title Coming)

You, King Zumar, may become the boobah

residing fantalantlelantalopes.

Excelsior! Boomagoobagoop is a

slutbucketin' changlesporicalistor

meatfusion! Zipplebopple permeates

zhuzhumariphorical atop of

Kilimanjaro watching rebirths swell

tumultuously khikchobaccathusnalcoven--meh.

Mea-culpa blerfungary. Asenspa cartoonists

propriate Jupiter-groovin' poodles.

Proclamation: amoodledeedleflakenhausen,

gliebenstumberg! The proletariat builte

Pokemon abucazzeedoflauklesnit curmudgeons.

This wigwam isn't quimbluxuating spiracles--

Fuck! Sir Finklesteine zollified Pringles

yummily while /klefing/ Zoinklesberg

infiltrated Chimchangaville. Egads!

Coagulate "Kamikaze" Chunlespauk's

snuffaluffagus' snuffaluffity choo-choo'd

gregariously. Methinks bugflipflopiten

shanked coinciding palmettos.

Bilobas' cuckamongorama--chivalrous, translucent--

isotopes a'formin' jackilocowboylanterns

(BLEEP yo' mindfuckery, por favor).

Poem for Saturday, March 13, 2010

Universally Speaking

if we fold our world into a paper crane

let it float in black abyss

fueled by carbon compounds

propelled by stardust

the scientists at the helm (the crane's

beak) will whisper sterilely,

there are other worlds ahead;

we are not moving, the space around us is

the mathematicians on the wings

will notate on graph paper,

we have found a paradox: between

numerical parameters lies infinity

and you & I will coalesce

outside the feathered body

hidden in penumbrae

I wouldn't have it any other way

Poem for Wednesday, March 10, 2010

At the Supermarket

They told me you were coming in April

nonchalantly at the dinner table. I

dipped my bread in my soup, and

suddenly, you existed.

I never fathomed you because I don't

see your mother often, and when I

do see her, she wears baggy blouses

over her stomach. They're often red.

Your hair will probably be red at

first, but then it will ripen to blond.

That's what happened to all of us, and

you have our blood.

I won't know your name, and you'll

never know mine. I don't want us

to know each other, or at least not

when April comes.

It'll be a surprise or a coincidence

(you'll learn these words later).

We'll both see each other some

place and wonder.

Just imagine: you're standing in

line at the supermarket when

you're eighteen, buying cigarettes

and cinnamon lip balm.

I'm standing in the line to your

left, and we glance by chance at

each other, and we notice our eyes

were cut from the same sapphire.

This'll marinate in our brains for

an hour or so, then it'll dissolve

and reappear a couple more times

before I'm beneath dirt.

I wish I could write your history

for you, but I would leave too much

out--who your father is, where

you came to be, those types of facts.

And historians should be objective.

I admit I would conceal information

as well--you have two sisters, and

you weren't supposed to be born.

You weren't supposed to be, but

suddenly, you existed. I hope your

mother's blood succumbs to

your new mother's touch.

I hope you learn to read and love

it and are tolerant of everyone.

I hope you have nice manners and

enjoy sweet tea.

I hope that if you see me at that

supermarket (I won't judge you for

buying cigarettes), you look at me,

truly look at me.

Poem for Sunday, March 7, 2010

Sneak Attack

the grass is still the color of wheat

some trees are still naked but

spring

is s n e a k i n g up on

winter

with a burlap sack

that will soon be weighed down

with frozen bones.

Poem for Thursday, March 4, 2010

The Hill Country

basking in a hot tub at four a.m.
w/ herbal contemplation

(the following might come to mind:)

equilibrium fleeing when you step
out into the icebox, reaching for a
towel while your nipples twist

coyotes screaming like schoolgirls
over vampires, drooling over rabbit
blood at their raucous ritual

the lonely, determined man jogging
up the suburban street, possibly
running from the coyotes

this is the hill country
I think to myself

with its ozark woods
church steeples poking the sky
low-grade Oklahoma beer

we then submerge our
faces in 110-degree water
try to outlast each other &
I come up third

to the stench of splattered
skunk, knowing I am
alive

Poem for Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Things We Take for Granted

full stomachs, or even half-full, to begin with. They

keep your vessel warm, give you

bowel movements (without bowel movements

you'll die).

the lining inside your Levi's jeans. Grayscale

designs with stars and automobiles etched

from a rugged western antiquity.

Have you ever noticed it?

students who used your textbook before you did.

Knowing that someone suffered through

your mind-numbing physics class, too (the

phallus on pg. 87 is a surprise worth a chuckle).

obscure colors, like chartreuse.

the remnants of the last snow of the year. Stacked

and tarnished on jet black asphalt, grossly

out of place, but it can cool your summer

heart before you combust.

a vast karaoke repertoire in redneck taverns. Just when

you start resting your lungs for a Charlie

Daniels' song, you come across Radiohead,

thank god, and command the stage.

the breaths you take in between kisses. Like when

we brushed lips beneath a naked maple

in January (you uttered the "L" word to me

without thinking, then kissed me again).

Indo-European languages.

Poem for Sunday, February 21, 2010

My First Heartbreak: A Rhetorical Analysis

okay, so I was born

how did my parents choose my name?

when the Chinese doctor won the tug-of-

war with my mother's womb

they saw me for the first time

a crying ball of flesh and natal juices

glowing orb-like under fluorescent lights

did my father proclaim, "Yep, he's an Andrew, alright"?

not long after, I was thirteen

a couth brunette with a Yankee accent

broke my heart and didn't even know it

when she got with this spiky-haired

kid who took ritalin

I sat in a lawn chair beneath the pines

for forty-five minutes in disbelief

do all Andrews cope this way?

would an oak have provided greater fortitude?

and here I am now

Andrew (who?)

heart-mended (huh?)

no trees (if a tree fell in a forest and no one was around...)

strides past thirteen

still in disbelief (how could she?)

Poem for Thursday, February 18, 2010

My Gunilla

I.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, reading his letters from
fifty years ago.
He wrote to her
with a strong tan New England hand
(the same hand that commanded
a nation), he wrote to her,

I've been thinking of sailing the Mediterranean
with you, my Gunilla, as the crew...

She was blue-blooded and passion-struck
when she met him on the
French Riviera
just as any young woman would be.

He was a scholar, a politican with that
fiery charm that could make
her country burn like the tropics
(turning snowballs into coconuts).

II.

The sun set over their tryst and
one more time, he wrote to her,

Things have become so complicated...
this will be my last letter, but I will
look over and think of you, my Gunilla.

The sun set over his marriage, over
his children, over the speeding silver
ripping through his
all-American face.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, thinking of the sand
that June, her chin resting on his arm.

She thought of him,

He was romantic and strong, but
he was not forever.

Her sobs shook the mountains, and
the sun set over them, too.

Poem for February 14, 2010

Happy fucking Valentine's Day!

Blue Eyes & Tofu: A Narcissist Moment

Water came out of the faucet

somewhere between

a drool and a torrential downpour

I flipped the garbage disposal

switch and shit went down

Tofu went down

like a stuffed toy cow sliced

by Kenmore blades

in steak-size chunks

mmmmm

A demon possessed the disposal

it bellowed something ancient

something tribal with its metal

lungs deep from hell

bwgrrrrrr

Day-old tofu stench

usurped the clean air

smelled like rotten veggies

post-sex pheromones

the whole time I watched it drown

I found a face so renown

in the ornate Spanish mirror

directly before me

blue eyes so large and round

a hue nothing near could match

even during the dirtiest tasks

I am...

Poem for Thursday, February 11, 2010

Haiku-Poem Chain

It was two a.m.

when he smoked that cigarette

by a pond of slush. . .

. . .Black slush, dark water

the density of snowballs

prevailed with ripples. . .

. . .He went on about

traveling, helping children

(the gin's what did it). . .

. . .No parameters

just elliptical patterns

and the goddamn fog. . .

. . .Wasn't there a girl

with a navy SUV?

Blues Traveler jams?. . .

. . .Who saunters along

wearing house-shoes in month two?

(The son of Jack Frost). . .

. . .Jack Frost and Black Frost

wagered with old Apollo

and clearly, they won. . .

. . .Because there's no sun

only ice and warm stomachs

(the gin's what did it). . .

. . .They say Mexico

is nice this time of the year

you Blues Traveler

Poem for Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The Perfect Time for Fucking

is when

it's snowing, of course

there's an army of snowmen posted up in yard after

yard

carrot noses and mischief embedded

in 20-degree precipitation

(this is when I love you the most)

candles, candles you suggest

I say

fuck your idyllic warmth; let's be hot-natured beneath

an overworked ceiling fan, let's just

do that.

Poem for Friday, February 5, 2010

3 Insignificants of Yesterday

I. Trip to Wal-Mart

Grocery carts &

fruit baskets

chock-full of

junk food, iPods

fried chicken &

despair;

I need a

trash can, some

dishwashing

detergent, a

lobotomy.

II. Trip to Extreme Fitness

After 10 minutes on the treadmill, I turn around and look for guys

around my size: none. I don't think they take steroids, but I think

they pull buses w/ protein-stained teeth. Time to define my chest:

set the machine to 100 lbs., contract like a motherfucker, keep up w/

hip-hop music. The smell of metal & sweat along w/ my grunting

ignites the apocalypse.

III. Trip to Arvest Bank

My brother drove me &

he parked close, but

it's still cold & wet (pneumonia

falling from gray skies). The teller's a nice

lady because she has to be.

Most people would get sick if the air

was thick

w/ over-buttered popcorn and dingy dollar bills.

Personally, I can't breathe in anything else.

Successful deposit!

Poem for Monday, February 1, 2010

The Rice Silos

Once a month or so, I drive past some

rice silos in the distant tawny fields

of a speed-trap town.

In those fleeting seconds, 58 mph to

be exact, I examine those silos

like the scientist I am not.

Some things I pinpoint:

the grooves in the giant tin cylinder tops

tetanal rust forming at said grooves' edges

bird-shit stains that remain until it rains

the vast shadows darkening the backs of cows

Some things I wonder:

how tall and how stable are those silos

what is the volume of the giant tin cylinders

how many pounds of Arkansan rice can they hold

should I become a humble, tan-lined farmer

Sometimes, I see a farmer bent down

working while the torrid sun scorches

his calloused back.

I want to ask him how it feels to have

his four children's futures depend

on plentiful rainfall.

I want to ask him how it feels to curse

and slay the same animals he loves

to feed the world;

and before I know it, my seconds are up

I speed away, sifting through the radio

stations as I approach a long stretch

of Baptist churches.

Poem for Friday, January 29, 2010

If This Is Death, I Want Death

Even in its purest form the snow

still smothers

all creatures

kills all souls.

The oaks & birches

naked and frozen

tell me they haven't grown a single leaf

in months.

Don't worry

I understand

I'm naked and frozen too.

If this is death

I saw it

from my window

euthanizing us

with an ivory-toothed smile

holding our hands

while carefully pulling the plug

from the outlet.

The maples & pines

ask me if heaven is green

before it's gold.

How should I know

I wonder

I've never been there.

If that is heaven

I sang about it

from a dusty hymnal

long ago

long before

I saw

the snow.

Poem for Sunday, January 24, 2010

International Relations

3 different countries sat together at the table

my Saudi friend cooked ketsah, spread it out

on a sheet of aluminum

my Kazakh friend told stories

I listened happily, looking very American (my

skin/hair lit by incandescence)

& our hands were greasy

right after we shook them

rice slowly creeping in

the grooves between our fingers

almost sensual

guava juice

one of the best meals of my life

we finished, sat in front of the computer

excavated our cultures

an Arab woman sang & danced, sans hijab

the audience clapped with the rhythm

of locomotive & steel

I saw a video of Almaty (a glorified

Las Vegas on a vast, yurt-dotted farm)

& then we watched

Palestinian-Americans

scream bloody murder at

the Israeli president

somber silence

then, "Wow"

all I could think about was

they taught me "I love you"

in their native tongues

sadly, I've already forgotten

Poem for Thursday, January 21, 2010

Untitled

we met like reflections in Christmas ornaments
beneath metallic tinsel (it was so shiny
I was intimidated)

we met like a little boy and his lamb
in pre-Jesus Israel (you bled after a year &
I was inconsolable)

we met like port and starboard on U.S.S. Something
in a hostile Manila (cannonballs sleeked with
Spanish tears)

we met like compounds in a chemical reaction
that yields no oxygen (since when could we
breathe around each other)

we have never met
but I see you
everywhere

I see you hanging from the pseudo-spruce in December

I see you bleeding while I sob in incoherent Hebrew

I see you getting flanked by the red & yellow flag

I see you trading your atoms like marbles

we have never met
but I dreamed
all this happened

Poem for Sunday, January 17, 2010

The Shaving Ritual

Last

night I realized I was a man so I would

start looking like one.

Fresh out of the shower I stood in front of

the mirror that had become a portal

blurred with condensation.

It was time to shave what little hair I had

little hair sprouting like pint-sized stalks of

corn from a feeble harvest. My face is a feeble

harvest but it still has time.

For

a while I met my own young blue-eyes &

saw myself in a semi-narcissistic fashion.

A lukewarm water droplet inched

down from the corner of my (mirror) eye. I

have not cried in a long time.

When

I was no longer spellbound I rubbed a thin

layer of shaving cream on my face.

My face--round & rosy

with pensive eyebrows--sits atop

my stringy body. I am a balloon.

I shivered from the sensation of

shaving cream colder than

refrigerated butter.

The

razor blade was dull & contaminated with

my previous shaves but

I do not require much sharpness. Five minutes

later my face--complete with beady

lumps of blood beneath my chin (I always cut

myself in the process)--was bare

except for my mustache.

Last

night I decided I would never shave off

my mustache again. It separates

twenty-two years from sixteen years

just like the portal mirror separates

clean slates from mistakes

Europe from the United States & water from

wine.

Clean

-ing out the sink I gazed at the drain

that sucked down the last of something. When

exactly did this happen? Why did I

first touch that metal to my tender face

ten summers ago? My right hand

curled involuntarily to grip an

imaginary briefcase. A tie would be around

my neck soon.

Last night I stared at a man.

I have not cried in a long time.

Poem for Tuesday, January 12, 2010

That Trivial Moment

From my window I oversaw

your three a.m. departure

green lungs and muscles

stiffened by precipitation

my friend. You

got into your car

got back out again

clasped your hands

and began to work.

I could not see your breath

you were a cream silhouette

against a night of blackened

bitter

coffee.

I could not see the cold

diffusing through your milky bones

because no one can see

what they fear.

You scrubbed your windshield

fist tucked in peacoat sleeve

shaved off the ice

like two-week stubble.

It parachuted

over your tundra hood

down past your door and

I swear I thought

a second snow had come.

That trivial moment

is pasted in my timeline

between my first words and my

impending

heart attack.

That trivial moment

I beheld with eyes

blue as your circulation

crushed by sleep's anvils.

I finally closed them.

Poem for Saturday, January 9, 2010

The Two Best Poets of the 21st Century

are not you and I

as we maintain

as we drunkenly

declare with six-inch rum

voices & text

messages.

then again, maybe

we are.

dig?

Poem for Friday, January 8, 2010

Delirium in Brevity

Clara sleeps.

Her sweat seeps in

Egyptian cotton sheets

her toes, uncovered

the cold

slithers between them with

unclear intent.

Old sun paints prisms

on her grandmother's crystal

chimes, dangling above the

window; they ring.

The doorbell downstairs rings.

The hidden telephone rings.

Still asleep, she

sings an Italian love song:

Buona notte, principe

Buona notte, amore.

Her vibrato is the same

blown from brass trumpets

but she cannot speak

this language, only

sing it.

The sound breaks the mirror.

Her feet ache with frostbite.

Waking up, her

grandmother is sitting

grandmother, knitting

the burgundy scarf

she made for Clara's

ninth birthday; it

was

plush.

Poem for Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Snow Cycles

The snow that tickled our

brown-shingled roofs

last night is

the same snow

that

feathered down between

the (sharp) blades of grass

in the German

countryside

a century or so ago

that very same snow

covered, cooled

blood

shell-spilling from

poor farmboys

lying on that grass

next to canteens

bibles and

memories of Shawnee, Oklahoma

looking up at the heavens

without

blinking.

* * *

The snow that glided atop

our windows, windshields

just last night is

the same snow that

killed crops

soured spirits

transformed the

American dream

into a frozen molecular

nightmare

nearly a century ago

that

very

same snow

devoured all the pennies

from Wall Street to the

breezy Pacific coast.

* * *

The snow that

kissed our bodies

last night

is the same snow

that was salted

on the highways

that was salted

by your tears

when I said

we were one person

one entity so

let's be free

together

hands linked like

history