OBEISANCE

Let the turbine talk as
It must, but blow
A little on its unfastening

Neck nurse, constellations
Spiraling imperceptibly
Beyond the smeared windshield

It is important not
To let another’s words work
Unaccompanied at your

Veins, it is not
Important to be a genius
Only geniuses think so

MY OWN DESIRE TO SEE

This cellophane sleeve
Looks like a diamond
Today, noon, crumpled
Though it is, sidewalk
Asparkle with various
Bits of dreck, as an
Old woman sourly
Nears the entrance
Of the Whitney only
To find it closed, I am
Sitting near a hot dog
Stand on a stone wall
In a spot of sunlight
Being spied upon by
Strangers who seem
To feel a young man
Writing in public is
Something to distrust
Which he is, my pen
Able to decipher the
Innermost desires of
Pedestrians through
The particularities
Of their gait, as one
Approaches wanting
Coffee and the next
Scotch and the next
No liquid save tears
From some displaced
Lover’s eyes, oh how
I myself wish to walk
Towards this pen, see
My own desires less
Inscrutably, perhaps
I could teach another
The trick of holding
It, to look minutely
And let the tip writhe
Of its own volition
Oh hell, that won’t
Work, I’d only see
My own desire to see
My own desire to see

HERE COME THE WARM JETS

Using cues purloined
From an island of ferns
Boars elms buzzards

Satisfying to waver
Hatless before the unkempt
Throngs, a simple cup

Of almonds shaking in the heavy
Wind, there is a man from this
Island who self-expired

Into a dizzy of chords, but
Don’t you know that
Only seemed to make things worse

PINPRICKS

My love was never was
Tensile surrounding
A little collection of blood

Drawn from the fingers
Under this whistling steampipe
Which does not breathlessly

Call out names
The way a random
Scent might, does

I am yet no amnesiac
Tendering passage
To a cold October moon

I ALWAYS CRY AT MARATHONS

There is a little Mexican
Boy handing out his Halloween
Candy to strangers

Running down 4th Avenue
Sun slanting against his face
Like the middle of the letter

N, I have counted eight
Men named Hans and one
Named Fons, which

I’m guessing rhymes
Though it’s difficult to think
Through while choking back tears

NOVEMBER 5TH

A fire engine threads
Traffic on 16th St.
Sky portending rain
Myself pretending
That it remains okay
To wallow in defeat
And avoid the news
Though undoubtedly
Someone is dying
In Iraq and someone
Is plotting in D.C.
And here I am alone
In Brooklyn listening
To Devendra Banhart
Over the passing din
Of ambulances, I’m
Wondering when
Balance will restore
Itself and how much
Violence it will take
Like a conflagration
Weeding out rank
Undergrowth, though
Nature and human
Nature couldn’t seem
More dissimilar some
Mornings, such as
This, clouds briskly
Compassing patches
Of uncorrupted blue
In stark relief against
My view of red brick
Pierced with windows
One of whose curtain
Hs been blown askew
By the wind, revealing
A gloomy little chair
Under a bare bulb
In a dingy kitchen
And a cat asleep
On the counter
Beside the knives

HEADLINE

If a man loses
His arm preaching
To a lion, you

Are in America, elms
Spiraling bald over the softball
Field, terrified

Horses prancing within
Feet of the Pit
Bull, I have no idea

How the brain suppresses
Its awareness of human
Suffering, suffering, suffering

ELECTION DAY

Bending down to pick
Up a basketball that
Had rolled into the street

I dropped my CD player
With an electrical thud
And spilled coffee down

My pant leg attempting
To retrieve it, tremendous
Gusts parading the length

Of Prospect Ave. where
I stopped off at PS 10
To vote and continue living

I DON’T WANT TO BUY THE WORLD A FUCKING COKE

Walking towards
Broadway and 72nd
Wading through
The distortions
Of wealth, poor
Caretaking for
The rich, all of it
Internalized in an
Idiosyncratically
American manner
The many basking
In the reflected
Power of the few
One day before
An election that
Promises to say
Everything about
The integrity of
Our “great” nation
Greatness surely
Compounding our
Curious capacity
For self-negation
Paucity somehow
Tenable as assholes
Command whole
Cities by whim
Families by war
The newspapers
Talk of football
Beside a running
And depressed
Total of civilian
Casualties, our
Horoscope reads
Impending doom
Any fucking way
You slice it