(no subject)
before the lists ...
january 2008
1 sofa, achingly
it is midnight and there is no one in this house but me.
it is forty-four degrees.
i lost a matchbook in the washing machine;
it advertised winston cigarettes.
i have a cropped denim jacket, no hair, red scalp.
i keep blinking.
i sat earlier at the piano in an empty house.
two cats tugged at a vacuum cleaner,
sleepy lions. to lay with her there.
i am alone in this house,
may light the match of this lamp
and breathe.
2 troy and food
troy is a man who lives across the street from a ditch.
behind his house there are chickens.
i rode a school bus next to this ditch,
troy says under the road there is a culvert
that served as a fine club house.
there is a plate where bananas lie.
also apples both green and red with little stickers.
all of the satsumas, this time, are ripe and seedy
though some of the slices are dull and juiceless.
there is oatmeal, wheat bread and gravy.
troy told me stories about the woods behind his house.
many men attempted homesteading, many failed.
but hidden back there somewhere,
before you get to the cows
and after a few four-wheeling black widows,
he says there are orange trees.
peas, raisins, my grandmother prepares
dark and white turkey, rice dishes, pickles, cranberry.
when it snows you heat the milk in glass in the microwave
and mix it with the cocoa near the toaster.
there is butter and potatoes, baked chicken.
troy wears a mohawk and flirts, fucks.
he rolls a joint in the car and tells his friend,
'i am in love with a woman.'
he breaks the sixers of tallboys at the gas station
leaving four with one hanging from the shelf.
the cashier says a second time
that she is two days older than me.
or doritos, dominos. sometimes the flat end
of the paper towels is soiled.
plenty times the kitchen smells of cat shit.
bugs follow the opened ham, popcorn drowns in olive oil.
there is sausage, pasta, soda and ice.
troy's television drinks beer with nascar.
he is scared when i ask about the roosters
i notice along the walls; says, 'oh shit!'
then says he forgot to close the chicken coupe,
i ask if its alright. it is.
troy will meet us later for the party,
after he picks up his girlfriend from work
and catches a few more juiced, swirling laps.
3 lights now, then
the sky is purple near the city.
i bite into the avant-garde apple in love.
there go two million years,
polarity shifts.
steam rises, renewable, in song
and the moon floats down the flooded streets
in swim trunks holding an umbrella.
four pigeons organize in time
on the powerline. jets streak an early night.
i smell the citrus in the soap, then descend.
4 dubai, destiny, kismet
tonight we are rocking for
bhutto, money launderers, jelly, salads,
lafreniere park, kites and small-headed birds.
tonight i am in love and know so,
'specially cause i get sometimes so sorry.
tonight my jeans are blue,
norwegians mourn and victoria sings
with the warble of ripples on the pond.
5 underwear dancers
robert unwraps
the butterscotch candy
and adds it to the salad
with ham, vinegar and eggs.
rain draws a line in the mud
around the house.
they lie as pressed leaves
beneath pulsating air.
6 wet-eared january
a cigarette, a leaf,
pine, moss, guitars, her mother.
i have bitten bruised arms.
the sky: a slate-grey ceiling
for wintered, seafoam cypress.
7 et mon bureau?
i cannot breathe, i cannot fly a kite.
i cannot smoke and see the road. julius,
i ask julius, 'how are things?' he
talks of funerals and cows eating wild onions.
i burp i cannot kiss, i cannot fly a kite.
julius walked four miles with a stone,
hitchhiked from thibodeaux, did not have a car.
his wife has a stroke it is his daughters birthday,
the floor has been waxed, the trafficed areas.
i cannot carry the pipe, it is about to rain.
robert cannot sing and cannot start a fire.
my knife is unsharpened, i have no money,
robert is poisoned by whiskey, julius says,
'things get worse and worse,' and the white cat
walks fat out from the lumberyard.
sheetmetal sounds, hear the wind howl,
i am worried about the water table rising,
robert cannot sing, cannot fly a kite.
julius holds his nose and milks the cows on the levee.
i will not work a day of my life, et mon bureau?
i cannot sell my work, my back is burned by grits
seasoned from above birmingham treetops.
i cannot see this place, i cannot see fifty feet
i am worried about the things buried in the ground.
julius will bury his wife, i cannot walk,
robert cannot walk, has stones in his passway.
what of my work? i cannot sell it, i cannot see.
i cannot fly a kite. the kitten was left outside
and starved beneath the big, old christmas lights.
'do not sit on this sidewalk!' --oh! new orleans.
i cannot see, i cannot fly a kite.
i smell the petroleum, smoke three cigarettes,
put up two dollars for gasoline.
the bugs swarm the lights, i cannot breathe,
and a lady rasps and whispers in my ears (i want to fuck)
selling icees, lighters, 32 ounces.
i cannot fly a kite, i want to fuck the oak tree,
the sturdy one and want it to fuck me.
but what of my work? i cannot sell it,
not the pulsating air around the dusk bridge.
robert cannot breathe, cannot see,
flips the light switches in a little prayer.
buck tells me, 'the school life is over,
now is the real life.' i cannot fly a kite,
it dips down to the left, i try to compensate,
my shoes are filled with water, i want to fuck.
but what of my work? watch the powerlines
over the lake, i understand this light, i cannot breathe.
robert cannot fly a kite.
8 dog, oak
grapefruit unlined, sour pillows,
i am younger to-morrow.
she lies, paradise, in redblush
and the clouds undulate, altostratus.
the moon peels scented between pink folds.
dogs bark distance, oaks sponged the sun,
sediment settles at point-aux-chenes.
january 2008
1 sofa, achingly
it is midnight and there is no one in this house but me.
it is forty-four degrees.
i lost a matchbook in the washing machine;
it advertised winston cigarettes.
i have a cropped denim jacket, no hair, red scalp.
i keep blinking.
i sat earlier at the piano in an empty house.
two cats tugged at a vacuum cleaner,
sleepy lions. to lay with her there.
i am alone in this house,
may light the match of this lamp
and breathe.
2 troy and food
troy is a man who lives across the street from a ditch.
behind his house there are chickens.
i rode a school bus next to this ditch,
troy says under the road there is a culvert
that served as a fine club house.
there is a plate where bananas lie.
also apples both green and red with little stickers.
all of the satsumas, this time, are ripe and seedy
though some of the slices are dull and juiceless.
there is oatmeal, wheat bread and gravy.
troy told me stories about the woods behind his house.
many men attempted homesteading, many failed.
but hidden back there somewhere,
before you get to the cows
and after a few four-wheeling black widows,
he says there are orange trees.
peas, raisins, my grandmother prepares
dark and white turkey, rice dishes, pickles, cranberry.
when it snows you heat the milk in glass in the microwave
and mix it with the cocoa near the toaster.
there is butter and potatoes, baked chicken.
troy wears a mohawk and flirts, fucks.
he rolls a joint in the car and tells his friend,
'i am in love with a woman.'
he breaks the sixers of tallboys at the gas station
leaving four with one hanging from the shelf.
the cashier says a second time
that she is two days older than me.
or doritos, dominos. sometimes the flat end
of the paper towels is soiled.
plenty times the kitchen smells of cat shit.
bugs follow the opened ham, popcorn drowns in olive oil.
there is sausage, pasta, soda and ice.
troy's television drinks beer with nascar.
he is scared when i ask about the roosters
i notice along the walls; says, 'oh shit!'
then says he forgot to close the chicken coupe,
i ask if its alright. it is.
troy will meet us later for the party,
after he picks up his girlfriend from work
and catches a few more juiced, swirling laps.
3 lights now, then
the sky is purple near the city.
i bite into the avant-garde apple in love.
there go two million years,
polarity shifts.
steam rises, renewable, in song
and the moon floats down the flooded streets
in swim trunks holding an umbrella.
four pigeons organize in time
on the powerline. jets streak an early night.
i smell the citrus in the soap, then descend.
4 dubai, destiny, kismet
tonight we are rocking for
bhutto, money launderers, jelly, salads,
lafreniere park, kites and small-headed birds.
tonight i am in love and know so,
'specially cause i get sometimes so sorry.
tonight my jeans are blue,
norwegians mourn and victoria sings
with the warble of ripples on the pond.
5 underwear dancers
robert unwraps
the butterscotch candy
and adds it to the salad
with ham, vinegar and eggs.
rain draws a line in the mud
around the house.
they lie as pressed leaves
beneath pulsating air.
6 wet-eared january
a cigarette, a leaf,
pine, moss, guitars, her mother.
i have bitten bruised arms.
the sky: a slate-grey ceiling
for wintered, seafoam cypress.
7 et mon bureau?
i cannot breathe, i cannot fly a kite.
i cannot smoke and see the road. julius,
i ask julius, 'how are things?' he
talks of funerals and cows eating wild onions.
i burp i cannot kiss, i cannot fly a kite.
julius walked four miles with a stone,
hitchhiked from thibodeaux, did not have a car.
his wife has a stroke it is his daughters birthday,
the floor has been waxed, the trafficed areas.
i cannot carry the pipe, it is about to rain.
robert cannot sing and cannot start a fire.
my knife is unsharpened, i have no money,
robert is poisoned by whiskey, julius says,
'things get worse and worse,' and the white cat
walks fat out from the lumberyard.
sheetmetal sounds, hear the wind howl,
i am worried about the water table rising,
robert cannot sing, cannot fly a kite.
julius holds his nose and milks the cows on the levee.
i will not work a day of my life, et mon bureau?
i cannot sell my work, my back is burned by grits
seasoned from above birmingham treetops.
i cannot see this place, i cannot see fifty feet
i am worried about the things buried in the ground.
julius will bury his wife, i cannot walk,
robert cannot walk, has stones in his passway.
what of my work? i cannot sell it, i cannot see.
i cannot fly a kite. the kitten was left outside
and starved beneath the big, old christmas lights.
'do not sit on this sidewalk!' --oh! new orleans.
i cannot see, i cannot fly a kite.
i smell the petroleum, smoke three cigarettes,
put up two dollars for gasoline.
the bugs swarm the lights, i cannot breathe,
and a lady rasps and whispers in my ears (i want to fuck)
selling icees, lighters, 32 ounces.
i cannot fly a kite, i want to fuck the oak tree,
the sturdy one and want it to fuck me.
but what of my work? i cannot sell it,
not the pulsating air around the dusk bridge.
robert cannot breathe, cannot see,
flips the light switches in a little prayer.
buck tells me, 'the school life is over,
now is the real life.' i cannot fly a kite,
it dips down to the left, i try to compensate,
my shoes are filled with water, i want to fuck.
but what of my work? watch the powerlines
over the lake, i understand this light, i cannot breathe.
robert cannot fly a kite.
8 dog, oak
grapefruit unlined, sour pillows,
i am younger to-morrow.
she lies, paradise, in redblush
and the clouds undulate, altostratus.
the moon peels scented between pink folds.
dogs bark distance, oaks sponged the sun,
sediment settles at point-aux-chenes.