Planting Beans

propping the shovel hoe and rake
spooling out twine plunging the stakes
kneeling dimpling the harrowed plot
thumbing simple tombs in the pocks
releasing the pink dusted bombs
dozing over dirt with a palm

a display of faith this arming
counting on another rising
their pearl green necks rolling
their respective stones exploding
revealing in each yawning
seed applauding

a leaf a tongue
the dumb report

Bird Man

In his younger
years, when he was
bung-full of sap,
the mere shadowing
of a swallow
jetting past
would spook his wool-
gathering gaze.

But now, the blue jay’s
jeering and juking
and the mocking
bird’s mania
and the mourning
dove’s rugged flute
are all drummed up
inside his napping.

Like funneled swifts
down deep chimneys.

Nurse :: Muse

flip my pillow
over baby
           and let me feel
           your shading tree
cradle my brain-
pan with one hand
           while the other
           one does the deed

rip the bandage
from my body
           change the damage
           sop up the dream
so distract me
with your singing
           that you don’t ring
           a tear from me

grip my ankles
with your let-down
           hair and phantom
           some quickening
there remember
feathered Hermes
           was fashioned in
           the shadows of

a cripple’s dancing
fire

______________________________________________________________________
Hephaestus was the Greek god of craftsmen, fire, and volcanoes. His Roman counterpart was Vulcan. In addition to making the armour of Achilles, the girdle of Aphrodite, the chariot of Helios, and the bow and arrows of Eros, he also fashioned the winged sandals (talaria) and helmet (petasos) of Hermes (Mercury). He says of himself in the Odyssey, Book VIII: “I was crippled from birth” (ἐγώ γε ἠπεδανὸς γενόμην).

Chair

lowercase
::h:: a place
to drape your

cape folder
of bodies
molder of

laps a place
for dandling
for dancing

lion tamer’s
prop site of
chess master’s

endless loop
the brawler’s
favorite

weapon the
carpenter’s
teetering

throne balanced
on the ledge
of heaven

the front two
angel-lathed
legs dangling

Nesting

What beakable thing
will catch the builder’s

eye? a string ― a puff
of doggy down ―

yesterday’s feather ―
All are viewed

and weighed and tested
― then taken

or rejected ―
All to sketch

a hollow place
a bird’s embrace

a cup a crèche
a pivot point for two

blue
worlds

Mister D.

MISTER D. is
always with me.

He’s there, mugging
in my mirror:

tonguing his teeth,
spritzing every

perfume. Goofing off
at the market:

sampling cheeses
and juggling fruit.

AND there he is,
near my lover’s

bed ― even when
fevered fingers

are climbing my
spine ― waving

that silly scythe,
making some nice

shadows and lights
for the seeming,

but very
little breeze.

MISTER D. is always
with me.

Prayer: Confession & Adoration

When I am
weak and when

am I not
weak?

When I am
wicked and when

am I not
wicked?

When I am
worried and when

am I not
worried?

You are power
pure and sure.

Pen Pals

FROM: Afro Sheen
of Silver Seed

TO: Dandy Lion
of Yellow Mane

Plump Robin

           Plump Robin
o, you swag
so, when you fly

each down-beating
of your wings
up brings a crest

and then the trough
― when wings come up ―
         of waving sine

Your flight’s
a fancied garland
unwound from yonder

tree ― the galloping
Richter's
pencil ― the scallops

of tremor's tinsel ―
a stretch of your E
KG

           In a dream
― I shan’t say whose ―
upside down

someone dreamed
you flew
O, winsome swimmer

your lantern breast
bobbing ― a constant
         crest ―

           O, Plump Robin
o, how you flew

Driving Around after the Reunion, with my Wife (the Former Cheerleader) Asleep in the Back Seat, Relishing my Rival’s Demise

She’s sleeping soundly
I’m driving roundly
all up and downly
our homely townly

O, there’s the store-y
where we adore-y
’way-laid her ringly
and out danced singly

And speaking of-ly
my sleeping lovely
and other way-lies
of ’waying laidly

Since Dirk was deadly
it could be saidly
she was finally minely
for all timely

After the Annunciation: X Marks the Spot

                   i.
SHE bit me on the arm
when I tried to hold her

AFTER she told me and
I didn’t believe her.

SHE didn’t draw blood but
the mark was there for days.

ANGRY didn’t quite
describe it – she was crazy.

                  ii.
SURE. I bit him. When I dashed
away, he captured

from behind – seizing my wrists –
then X-ing all four

of our arms across my breast.
So, I bit down. Hard.

Off to see Elizabeth.
HOPE it leaves a mark.

Flight of Freighter Bird

           Plump Robin
o, you swag
so, when you fly

each down-beating
of your wings
up brings a crest

and then the trough
― when wings come up ―
         of waving sine

           O yes, your flight’s
a fancied garland
unwound from yonder

tree ― stretched out
but still
such rolling

as a string
of pinned-up tinsel
         penciled ’cross the scene

           In a dream
― I shan’t say whose ―
upside down

someone dreamed
you flew
O, winsome swimmer

your lantern breast
bobbing ― a constant
         crest ―

           O, Plump Robin
o, how you flew

Dan at Grayson

Riddle #3

I live in a black box
which opens
out and up

my harem of orange
hips out
toward you

but most all my perfume
slips up
the shoot

11:21 P.M.

DEAD is no
abstraction:
it sounds like

keening dog
and it smells
like Lysol.

But it tastes
loosely like
late at night

in August heat
Four Roses,
bourbon,

neat.

Woman at Window

The window opened on Paris
or Prague or some other sampled

city ― and your fingers ― well, two
of them ― outlined an O. Were you

smoking ― the glass was touch-dusty ―
or pinching some delicacy?

Perhaps you were signing “okay”?
The O fell back into shadow

then, oboe-like, returned. This time,
with its lowercase mate, glowing.

Driving Across Ohio

Sometimes there is
a single tree
in the middle
of farmer’s field.
And you wonder

how it escaped
the blades of one
hundred winters.
But there it is
at plowing time

a shadeless lamp
amidst the brown
furrows — formed by
some Zen master
with his red rake

held out behind
an old tractor.
A stark living
room décor. But
summer will bring

the dainty things:
leaves for old trees
and a carpet
of Jubilee,
overachieved.

________________________
Jubilee is a variety of sweet, yellow corn.
See also Leviticus 25.

He rode

HE rode with Custer. But wasn’t
Custer. And he rode with Sitting
Bull. But this one wasn’t Sitting
Bull, either. Just as dead. Just as
renown. This poem levels the field

of fame. Because. On this day. When
your dripping kerchiefs ― just dipped ― touched
their brows ― the nameless brave ― their dried
crud went pink with enough water.
History is [proverb goes here].

April's Autumn

A false fall,
but faithful
symmetries:
spring’s first leaves

unrolling:
in reds and
yellows and
Oranges.

Crush

WHY call this a crush? I guess it sounds quaint
enough, the puppy lovey ― moods of youth ― naïve
nothings. Nothing heavy or lasting here, so move
along. The only blood is blush: unpainted-

on. THERE are pens ― called crush-pens ― for cattle
and sheep, which narrow like a funnel:
at the business end is the branding iron,
glowing like the inside of a star ― or ―

so I suppose. For your ass ― it hisses,
coming back down, closer to home. Not to mention
the unbecoming ― though mysterious ― fit
of the crèche. But who’s to say it’s not serious.

UNABLE to breathe. Unable to move.
Ask any orange. Juiced. Isn’t that you?

Talking at Tombs

IF I had such power,
I would put on a show:
hocus my pocus and focus my potions
with lots of hand motions
into that black hole

BUT the Carpenter simply cries
― for the sake of the crowd ― out loud:
Lazarus, come on out and play.
And the rest of you, strip him down
― down like Adam ― on Eve’s first day

Afterfeathers

NOT even a full feather
but a tiny torn portion

floating

from, I presume, my pillow
I blow at it ― keeping it

aloft

THE delayed response as it
shudders, gaining a little

altitude

as long as divinity
angles up from down below

TELL me true

how is this unlike my own
fleeting flight ― torn ― borne up ― blown

and then gone

finally fallen below
the backlighting of window

Muscle Memory

SWEPT over
by the same
sequence of
weathers ― wind

and water ―
some connive
and thrive ― while
some of us

take the bend
to our souls
and twisted
unwinking

we ― the wonders
of almost
broken down ―
archive

Question

WHY are winter
sunsets so
much better —
stun guns of
orange sherbet?

Paper Kite (revised)

ITS tail was ripped from old bedclothes ― a train
of crude bow ties. And since it was cloud-sheering
windy, we made it royal-long ― almost convincing
each other she’d fly. The maiden flight was short ―
and bitter: the scatter-brained store-bought parts
looping in crazy eights ― flashing infinity signs.

NOW dangled upside down like the escape artist
in his sack, tangled by its tail in the still-
bare limbs of the old black elm, the distorted
diamond quivers and crackles ― there ― unreachable.

AND so we await the slow ― but certain ― secret curtain
of summer ― then all the stripping done by fall ―
to be unveiled there for the winter view ― no Houdini ―
just the spine and the spar of a balsam cross.

Classified

For sale. Vintage taboo.
Rarely used. Call after
7 p.m. Ask for Jimbo.
Make an offer.

How I Won the Chief’s Daughter

pony stolen
spring pursued
summer barren
fall renewed

winter retaken
blizzard returned
parents awakened
fingertips burned

lighting calumet
daughter’s laughter
dark-eyed amulet
ever’s after

The Breakup

your thoughts all
jumbly your heart all
tumbly your words all
mumbly your tummy
all rumbly your eyes
all smudgy your lips
all tragedy

Diversion

This time,
why don’t you draw
off my

grief while
I slip off some
other

way and
hide out in, say,
Madrid?

This time,
stay on the run
out in

the open —
don’t get caught,
but don’t

try so
bloody hard
to get away.

The Thought

As soon as
he thought the thought he thought:
What a strange and dangerous thought I’ve thought.

What if he could wrap it all up
after lunch? Wouldn't that be wonderful?
wicked? both at once?

All the sufferings bunched... in one bouquet...
Whadya say? It certainly comports
with a common view of the world.

The one that says, Eat your peas
and your bitter herbs first. And we've all restrung pearls
or charms at least once before,

so why can’t a man do the darkest parts
of his dying first, right up to the cusp,
right now ― right after lunch?

Let’s have it out now:
the bloody moon and the jumping cow
the boos and the hoos and the blues

and the golds. The whites and the reds
of that nighty-night angel wrestling
toe-to-toe with the Breton maids

watching ― Are they
praying? ― with the milk on their heads
and then just go on

with the rest of the day:
the doctors, the nurses,
the man with the puppets ―

the pills after supper
from those pretty paper couplets.
And then finally

just the firelight
of the constant t.v.
with maybe 30 seconds or so

from Victoria’s Secret to close
out the evening, to round
off the scene.


Image:
Paul Gauguin: Vision after the Sermon (1888)

Paper Kite

Tangled by its tail in the still-bare limbs
of that old black elm, twirling and crackling
there, in a hard March wind, dangling upside
down like the escape artist in his white sack.

The tail twisted up like a rung-out shirt,
with that ― you know ― second level of twist,
suggesting a spiral staircase. And when
the wind calms down, it unwinds for a bit ―
and reposes a nervous chrysalis ―
before rewinding ― yet again.

The leaves of spring and summer will cover
its stripping ― all its paper gone by fall ―
and so there leaving for the winter view:
the spine and the spar of a balsam cross.

Palm Someday

More miracle than the camel
through the needle’s eye,
someday i

will be tugged through the arrow loop
in my saviour’s palm,
coolly calm,

a hanky the size of a shroud
from the third magi's
thimble-sized

black box.



Image credit:
Blue Ball, Pennsylvania (vicinity). Mennonite funeral. 1942.
U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information.
Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Division.

Something, Son

To stand before that Pilate man
To stand and speak
with my heart

in my hand ―
To beg the body,
the broken body,

the body of the carpenter's son ―
Now that would be
that would be something

to beg the body of God ―
That would be something, that would be
some

thing,
son
something, son



Image:
Detail from Il trasporto di Cristo al sepolcro
by Antonio Ciseri (1821-1891)

Role Playing

You do have to
wonder ― don’t you ―

whether dolphin
endorphins surge

whenever one
pod intersects

another ― Do
they sigh inside,

in delphic-speak
:(after spying

that special one):
what. a. god. ― Do

they double back
with a double-

take ― reversing
their coursing ― Or

do they swim on,
remorsing and

rehearsing their
almost reversing

Power Outage

The sleet had brought down the
limbs which had brought down the
wires which had brought out the
big utility trucks

Stacked neatly now, the limbs
on the ground ― all their sawn-ends
on one end ― all their swab-tips
on the other:

Silver with impending
Spring, mossy-soft antler nubs ―
Spongy, fuzzy, undone
buds ― icy glazing gone

The deep ruts left by the
heavy trucks, they shimmer
with windy pools of water:
blue-eyed with clearing sky

Dyin' to Ride

Pats him on the head and says, I’m ready to ride
Leans into his mane and says, I’m ready to ride
He’s the World’s Greatest Cowboy, ready to ride

He says, My little one - don’t be afraid
The crowd may be loud - don’t be afraid
Just step light, lightly, proud - don’t be afraid

He’s the World’s Greatest Cowboy, ready to ride
No shoes, no saddle, no bit, no bridle
No bit, no bridle, no shoes, no saddle
He’s the World’s Greatest Cowboy, dyin’ to ride

How’s He gonna ride with cloaks and branches in the way?
How’s He gonna stay on down Mount Olive Way?
’Cause He’s the World’s Greatest Cowboy, come see Him today

Pats him on the head and says, You’re doing fine
Leans into his mane and whispers, Mighty fine
You’re the World’s Bestest Bambino, you’re doing fine

He’s the World’s Greatest Cowboy, ready to ride
No shoes, no saddle, no bit, no bridle
No bit, no bridle, no shoes, no saddle
He’s the World’s Greatest Cowboy, ridin’ to die



Image credits:
Undated Postcard from the collection of Brett Payne
Yelena Cherkasova, The Entrance of Our Lord into Jerusalem 1 & 2
Roy Rogers and Trigger, photo from Life magazine
Hippolyte Flandrin, Christ's Entrance into Jerusalem

How this poem ends

Maybe with something pithy
or witty (they’re not the same)

Or, something coolly ironic ―
a twist, a pun, some Famous Name

Perchance, some learnèd allusion
containing a multitude

of meanings. Or just a safe & simple
platitude ― on loving and/or grieving

Could be something s)edgy or (exy
or shocking ― if (at all) possible ―

But there’s nothing new sub-sun
so that may present a problem

and even look a little desperate,
or just plain ol’ ill-informed

So how will it ― should it ― end, this poem?
Maybe in the beginning, where the stars were born

Rock Paper Scissors

Moon in the morning:
aspirin in the clouds ― both
swallowed by the sun.

Like Bluebirds in

We fled the City – but we’re still Scared
of our old Neighborhood
my Mother prays a lot – out Loud –
I’ve got my own Bedroom

My Brother looks – a lot like me –
my Sister – not so Much
my Father? Oh – I can’t recall –
his Life – a loaded Gun

The light Rail – yes – it cuts both Ways –
the Planners sold but One:
the Banker to his Office – not
my old Gang to our front Door

Like Bluebirds – in – an old Cartoon
who’re hanging out – the Wash –
we pinch the Sheet – at each Corner
and – we cover – up – my Face

Honour Guard

The young bugler stood
on a hill in the snow and
played Taps for my friend.

He wore white gloves and
a black beret — and melted
away at the end.