for Charles King, 1958-2006

Seeing his son
for the first time
and the last time,
this artist-turned-soldier
dies in the desert
praying for rain,
praying for us
to pray against
those who prey on peace.
He is our king,
our frontline,
our lamentation.
And when
business-suited dignitaries
finally etch out their boundaries
all that’s left of him
are his paintings:
hulking canvasses
retelling the silently epic battles
that ravaged tanks and convoys:
machines under siege,
their treads torn—
each portrait losing its
camouflaged flesh
to the flying and
flickering sand.

I’ve gotta get this song     outta my head—the one from the eighties,the one-hit wonder. I remember the title,     but I won’t repeat it.For even the nameis its own inescapable melody.

Last year was last yearpast midnight in thiscity second-floor apartment.Throwing darts against concentrationand dodging the champagnepassed around hand-to-handlike a collection plate exceptthis vessel gives, it gives, it gives.By now we’re used to the smokethough tomorrow we’ll be disgustedby the smell in our clothes, reeking like wewere out at SOME BAR last night.  I seeyou grab … Continue reading Dartsanatomy

A chameleon can
whisper in any language.
It can tongue
the chocolate bannister of lust
and not get stuck.
If the bannister melts,
the chameleon will drink it—
it does not need a handrail,
it does not need stairs.
It scales the several stories
of a cocoa affair
with its eyes rolling,
with its coiled tail erect.

She doesn’t bring thingsthat couldn’t accrue to other crises,such as hands holding bouquetsor a shepherd’s staff made only of E’s. The sound of my temple beatingagainst the pillow I once thoughtwas m’eyelash, though I couldn’t prove it. Even when I went stiffI could not escape the soundof my pulse licking the hay. And yet it … Continue reading Mother Mary