Saturday, February 26, 2005


Reads the book thankfully
Unread on the shelf, the gym through
The window across

The park deserted, the tips
Of three of
My fingers have grown

Waxy, taut, something
Welling between the surface
And the bone, a woman

In an eggshell
Shawl pours over
Her copy of

Southern Accents when she’s not
Leering across the table
At me, increasing

My ever-present paranoia
That strangers are reading
The terrible things I write

About them and will any
Minute be thrusting a sharp
Part of their body

Against mine, as now the snow
Has begun to flutter
And circle tentatively beyond

The panes like some Fellini-esque
Spring wildly jumping
The gun, though my Thursday

Boredom would certainly appreciate
An impromptu bonfire set
Flush against a cartoonish Italian

Bosom, in this way my
Biology attends concomitantly
To the shapes my looking

Constructs, and I am here
To appreciate the manner in which
A smoking woman

Wades through asphalt, how
One building dwarfs
A larger one merely by the effect

Of its character, a boy
Trying to pass
For a Tribecan sentry, combing

The grates with his eyes, his fists
Jammed into his sleeves like potatoes
In a windsock, not often am I

Menaced by darkness for
I find it natural, not
In me, but in the world, in

Imagination’s terrible reach where
Things occur which dwell
Deeply beyond the pale, not things we are

Capable of perhaps, but we see
Them nonetheless, much as Henry
Miller spent three years

Inside a slide
Trombone, I have
Found myself too

Sane, and sullenly I feel just
Like Bonnie Raitt on
The cover of Streetlights

Her mouth unselfconsciously
Open, a little
Question in her

Eyes as if
To say, “I am so
Full of this…

This…what is this?

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