I Want One!

is the language of children
seeing a saw-whet owl for the first time and
coveting, knowing only how to appreciate through
ownership, through
subjugation, through
the keeping of a wild thing
in a small silver cage

Inexpensive Sins

we’ll buy a rack of Milwaukee’s and
a can of Easy-Cheese, the type with the orange cap that
is, legally speaking, still cheese,
and some pretzels. No, not that bag, put it back,
get the Utz and save some pennies,
and that’s ten dollars down the drain but
we’re drinking hard and scarfing
the finest death a science can make and
here and now, shit, this might be heaven
and this might be all we can afford but
it’s not all we’ve got.

In Defense of Poor Photography

see the smear of a smile smorn and
you will remember the evening lost,
look past the murk and past the grit and
the party springs back, so close, the drinks
at your fingertips and the old snap-click camera
at a friend’s eye, the smile they are committing to forever
is on your face, and also on his face, and her face,
and it’s all there! the whole night is right there,
the friend arriving early with a six-pack of Busch and
the friend with snow on her coat, twenty minutes late
(as usual),
and you were laughing at a joke that is gone, gone forever,
but the photo, all blurred, too dark, unsteady,
the photo is there to remind us

Bedside Manner

I never sat so alone with someone,
nor saw a human become a body, never
wanted so badly to find answers in, in –
the brickwork of the wall? in the blips of a machine?
Give me signs and give me wonders,
give me thrown chicken-bones or the
soot from thrushfire, I will believe any omen,
anyone, please, someone, let me
trace the failing of a heart to one vapor of yesterday,
tell me the movement of a planet caused this or
the Will Of God, anything but the cold chaos of a clot,
anything but the real.

Boil Advisory

and even this has turned to poison,
while we hauled it from the well,
our limbs sweating with the motion
like sinners racing towards hell
and even this was worthless toiling
(the profit deadly as the pact)
and even now we still are boiling
and hope to purify the act.


try to see the moment when the
rain ceases and the snow begins,
try to divide it evenly, and
hold it in your heart,
try to convince them all there is a difference
when the wheels skid, spin, slip, flip,
try to see the moment when
traversal turns to terror when
a day becomes The Day
and you’ll find,
with all sudden and terrible changes,
there is never truly just one moment
where everything went wrong

A Wizard In Memphis

A Wizard in Memphis works nine to five
but really, honestly, more like eight to six
(he doesn’t get paid for the lunch hour)
on the seventh floor in a tower full of ties and bluster
where they give him tin, he gives it luster
and glister and a douse of the Art
and turns it to gold, and throws it in a cart
and it gets shipped off to China or England or Somewhere
and the boss pays him in pennies and doesn’t get up from his chair
while he scolds his poor Wizard,
no work ethic! no talent!
And the Wizard just waits and spindles his beard
until the boss barks himself tired and takes a call
and the Wizard leaves, and walks, or takes the bus home
and he sits on a couch and he plays on his phone
and his thoughts are light wishes, just wishes are all,
that he had a skill to get him out of this life but
he snaps his fingers and up-lights his pipe
and he takes a few tokes,
and turns in for the night.

To Sleep

close your eyes, close your eyes,
there is nothing left to see today
rest in warmth and wonder and
allow the night to slip away,
dream sweetly; smile, love,
your labouring is done, today,
breathe steadily, then quietly,
let dreams go where they may.

Bradbury’s Carnivals

his heart must certainly be a carnival
in the darkness, kept lively and light
through fluttering fluorescents and the spin and jump of
ribboneers, the hollering of barkers and
fingers skittering like locusts at night
pointing out each word,
the weak light beneath the blankets sputtering
while the parents think you asleep. But we are not
in that world for the moment, not in the world of
mothers screaming and fathers beating, no,
we are with Bradbury in his carnivals,
safe in the company of dangerous men and
devils that dress for showmanship, we are
peering with eager eyes through the tent-flaps
at creatures swimming in murky jars and
sideshow freaks with sad, sad thoughts,
and we are here, still seduced by the
whistles and blares of the carousel,
and the night is growing darker and
the flashlight is fast fading and
just as quick as dying we are
slumbering, with soft dreams twinkled by
the visit of Bradbury’s carnivals.

Up The Mountain

The mountain cares not for the climber,
it will not mourn, nor notice
such a small death,
such a little thing as
the burying of a man.
The mountain cares not for the widow,
the mother, is deaf to the
steaming tears of the father,
the mountain is not
moved by a loss, nor
will it be defaced by a grave,
no, the mountain will splash
down a fresh coat of whitewash
and bury all
in its own way.