Metropolis

A gauze
over

a sideways
     gaze

I
aver                    a venus

I mean
there's fur &

filigree               I agree
to be

blind
I find                  the cold

shoulder
I grow bolder

when nobody notices
my many

crutches
I rush to barricade

I beg
to be                  in the bass

saxophone; a cerulean
ovesight

the warm cadre
in the backroom

mirrors the gloom
                          outside

put on your red shoes
& tremble

like a flower or
delirium tremens

wholesome thugs
trade this                  for a spear

& a jawbone                  &
the band still

played on                  until their turn
against the wall

Still Life with Three Skulls

I wish I had a card heart,
strawberry-red & molting;

But I am
inverted & blackened: who wants
to be the ace of spades?
Three friends who cannot engage
      the brown spirits:
speak evil, see evil, look
to the stars for a sense of perspective.
      Candle svelte like a V2,
a thing like a tongue, backlit
fishnet cathedral glass.
       Everything's in the cards
if the cards are marked & there's
a sodden old handkerchief tucked
     up your sleeve.  Perspective
gets distorted when you're yucking
it up with the boys.  O to be
a joker instead of the suicide
king, always plunging
     the saber deeper when
all you wanted was to
scratch
what itched
you & carve your name
          into the table
before getting lost toward the bottom
of that unlocked dresser drawer.

Children, Tonight I'll Pick Something Out

Even the sparrow bleeds perfume

in spring.  A man sprays

fire when all he gets

is a kiss.  Skinny

or fat, they

are all sad when they eat

sandwiches.  They whine

when they bend & their backs

are already sore.  Rich

or poor, their lungs

are filled with fluid from

choking on their

woes.  The old man fixes
his gaze on the beeping 
sparrows in there trees;
Marlene suffer all the fools
who write you on the wall
of the specimen room 
where one bright thing begins;
forgive me please, 
diamonkey, pierce through
writer man.  Don't go away
heart broken, go away 
white & strut for 
the troops, the troops
& their sinister context.
Our tears flow 
after the recount, O Marlene
suffer everyone waiting 
in the wings to try to haul 
that angel to the roof
with bloody ropes;
dead hand will change 
the plot to pluck the sepals
of the daisy down to the 
ghastly yellow mouth. Love me 
not, you sad-eyed pearl. 

Lonely House

Met death on the stairs;
the rooms like moods.

Stars are alone; viewed
from the outside the Dyson sphere

of my dolor is
pistacchio green.

The austere chrome
faces stare into posterity.

Sometimes I forget
everyone who's dead.

Ring around the sun
pocket full of

dynamite, candy dots
on ribbons of parchment

dumb brail that trails,
sebaceous, over the cracks

that break the backs
of lovers & Romantic doubles,

a farce of lost phone
chargers & a hopscotch court

for sorrow, for
mirth, for weddings & the birth

of a thousand tomorrows.  There's
a vacuum where heaven

might've been
if only the opera hadn't taken so long

to get started.  A wardrobe
filled with moth holes &

bowler hats.  An audience chatting
during your solo,

devouring mouthfuls of popcorn
& Cheez-its as you

solemnly remove your eyeballs
& stagger in circles,

your gore a calligraphic
signature across the boards.

The Ballad of Sexual Obsession

The world is a cubicle

& when you think

outside of it,

you’ll find yourself

standing just beneath

the noose.

Time isn’t really

had but made out of quick-

lime : everything,

then, becomes

an academic question.

The man is a gasbag,

but he finds himself

enthralled by

his own

toned buttocks. 

He devours a cold

chicken

breast to better 
achieve a mind of winter. 
It's true they're idiots
& true he's the tool 
of Satan but Satan
only wants to have you
for tea & to give 
bunny his good supper. 

Singing in the rain 
of artillery; sex is so 
2005--there's an app 
for that: it's called
oblivion, equal parts 
lion & libido.  Follow
the chimera tracks 
in the dust to where 
the gold hare lies
buried by the collapsing 
buildings.

Sing, Nightingale, Sing

From the tree in the garden,
tho there is no tree
& no garden.  Keats died
from flying coach;
the bird pops
from branch to branch
to annoy
Fanny in her mourning;
I write my ode to the mockingbird
who can sound
like a car alarm or
"Music for Airports," singing
all night long because
the diamond ring was only
a bluff.  The left-side engine
is blown out by a thousand
metaphors for poetry
& the captain must land
the rig while reciting lines
from "The Road Less
Travelled."  Spring
means pollen & it has made
all the difference : I'm
not crying, you're crying.
My eyes just look like this
when the winds
change & they bulldoze
our sacred grove
to build another 7-11.

Good Weather Today

A crater

where the stage

should be.  A hole

for a poem.  Film stock gone

grainy, a meeting to plan

the exam that we will all

administer

in one week’s time.  It’s a fine

day to take a stroll &

once your toe

is in the acid

bath, there’s nowhere to go

but to pieces. Beware folks
who love parades or prefer
to defer to experts
who all have the same first name.
Do not make the world
too comfortable or else
they'll want to stay. 
The machines don't need us
for batteries because we're dim
bulbs though we burn 
for quite some time
if properly lit. 
As above, so below 
& it's stupid at the top
& lava at the bottom.