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With practice I could fold a rose Or a theory of prose or some treason But what is to be got--a satire? Expedience? the opera of laughter? I know conviction from the convict, The senator from February.
Poem from Million Poem Journal (2003), reprinted with permission of Faux Press Books
My father taught me how to play the beer bottle. It was Schlitz, and I was three or four. "You tuck your lower lip under, then blow air over the top of the bottle." I produced a tone, and we laughed. He paused. "You can make a different sound if there's less in the bottle," he said, motioning for me to take a sip. I did, then blew another note. We laughed again.
"Do you want to learn something else? Here's how to be a lawyer. Raise one eyebrow." I did so. "Good. Now hold it for a few seconds, turn toward the jury, and say 'I see.'"
The please freak And the likeness monster Follow the pretend family On their journey alone Around the room. In the middle of the night Comes the terrifying cry— "How may I help you" The tree looks down And shakes its head. Under separate cover Of the night, love Stalks the streets. The audit committee Goes into executive session. In a faraway bedroom, A baby smiles.
I tell you I will not make any more raids, The elusive going-elsewhere motherboard An electrical sound marking stretches Afternoon is carving into the wood of us, That’s our modern way of saline allegory— To make gods of times of day. I won't Cooperate with this love that steals itself Into a brand name, preferring to abandon Like feathers or a rocket stage the moves Traffic up till now couldn’t touch. That’s me, That warm breath dying on the neck, The only chain they couldn’t save in the fire Everybody but the Buddha called A day at the beach.