When there isnowhere left to look,I look to the sky.When I cannot look into pawned jewelry boxes,into vases void of flowers;when I am looking for echoes,for the sound of her falling hairhitting the carpet,I look up. Up, up. One day I looked upand it was perfectly clear.Nothing was no clouds, just sun.The sun: my enemy, her … Continue reading The Sun Gets In The Way
The Ship Is Me
This is my ship:its creaking bowis mine own. Its hands mine,the planks of its deckmy ribs. Its captainmy captain, my heartspinning like the helmin his hands. Checkmy conscience forlatitude and longitude,my throat for the letters S-O-S. I feel the rising weather in my bones as the waves fondle its breast,my hull.
Neighbor
From across the fenceyou ask for it:twenty cents,you say you need, for the bus or the gas bill (whichever arrives first)as you water your sharp, green grass straighten up your JESUS sign, wipe the spider webs from your concrete goose’s head.I’m sorry, I say,I can’t offer you anythingmore than what you’ve already got: the words of the Savior, and his various disciples, some dead, some … Continue reading Neighbor
Dream Fire
Sleep is part
of the underground—
not taxed. All
these hours, colors,
and people (real and not)
are coming to me for free,
cracking their belts
like whips,
offering me
chests of money.
What code—
what provision
of science—
does this fall under,
this unregulated
carnival of closed eyes?
Is it safe?
Are the funnel cakes
sold here
soaked in trans fats?
I fall asleep at night
on a welcome mat,
in front of the
brick-hard hearth. I
keep warm
by throwing one more
log, one more day
on the fire.
9 to whenever
Everything was fine
because
the house
(with the dog
and the cat)
welcomed
the rain-shoed employee
home.
Button-down Shirt
Two ways to take it off.
Pull it up over your head
if you’re in a rush—
if you’ve just gotta have
that bare chest on parade.
Or, take it off slowly:
from the top down,
button by button—
if you’re a bit tired,
if you’d be so kind
as to massage
the muscles
of method and time.
There is no third way
because two is enough.
Tea for Whoever’s Left
Untouched cheeksplague me likegum in my stomach.My heart is too aware of them:it sends out chemical warriorsto cleanse body and mindof thin-armed remembrances.Like the tender turf of a battlefieldmy spirit is impressedwith the sound of hoof-beats.As I clean up afterward,sorting shield and sword,ghosts of the fallen beg meto lessen desire, lessen desire.
Vegas
Everyone debauched but everyone a virgin in some way. You can’t have tried everything, you can’t have tired of everything. Something to come back for, something to save for next time, when you’ve got more money, some savings to play with, and hopefully better luck.
There’s a premium on everything, and nothing is free. Not even luck. Luck costs money. Luck for a buck? Maybe the stars are free, but good luck seeing them through the neon broil. Maybe it’s time for a drink. Maybe it’s time to skim some winnings, to cash out, to double down, to parlay, to bet the house, to count some cards.
Good place to come for a birthday. One you don’t want to remember. Just cab doors opening and closing. Croupiers changing shifts, cleansing their hands of the table and all the bad luck that came with it. Cashiers sitting behind bars. Chips in their neat little stacks of hundreds or thousands. The peaks in the distance. The hotels standing and stretching in the hot, dry desert air, the sun not far away.
Gathering chips for their bets, trying to get free drinks, trying to get comped. A generous mix of Filipino, white, some blacks, you name it, a few Koreans, the new wealth Chinese—cabbies called them whales because they were big fish, big betters. Old and older. A bunch of kids crawling around doing god knows what, more likely to get kicked out of the casinos than anyone else because they don’t bet.
Mafia types—Skyball Chibelli and Baba, hoping the croupiers don’t look too close at their money. Cabbies who went to high school here. Eighties music, light shows, five-dollar minimums, champagne bottles, sixes and eights, Manhattans, Coronas, the hot sun, no clouds, bellmen looking for tips, towel boys looking for tips, everyone looking for tips and some people giving them. The whole place like an octopus but with more arms, looking for anyway to get its hands on your money, and when it does—bang! it pops its barb into you like an unexpected sting ray, whether you are an expert or not. Here, no one is an expert. Experts get beat up and know better...
Vegas never closes...
Oh, No!—It’s Sunday
‘Member Friday? It was flashes of light, fast cash, and martinis. This is Sunday. Unread newspapers, cold coffee, and what we’ll wear tomorrow.
Bum
Brought down by
parking tickets,
the weight of the city
upon him like
a dozen concrete elephants;
asleep in his best suit,
hung up on cigarettes,
never far from booze—
still clutching
that one bright coin
from the plaza fountain
that landed face-first.
JBR.com 