Measured Nautically

 

Nautical miles away, does that make me

closer or farther? I should look it up.
The dictionaries loom across the room,
as you lie over endless waters, measured
by any span, piratical or not.

If I could picture schools of kippers pushing
a v-shaped wedge of water on their way
to be your lunch, or hear the blue whale sing
Songs of the Psychedelic 60s, we
still would be stumped by distance. I am quite

as close as thought-waves. I could rig a gizmo
out of a curling-iron, colander,
extension cord, some rock salt, and my belt.
Where would you plug it in? Someone forbade
compatible power in our different lands.

I'll tie a message to a tuna, let him
slipstream currents, resting at fish stops. If
he pulls up lame, we're hopeless; watch for him
to greet your shore as tired as a dove,
bearing a stalk of salt-soaked celery.

The Maltese Sonnet

   This appeared in Lyric.

Having the frail, the dingus, and the gat,
My standfast scruples and a flask of rye,
I set her up, then I sat down and grat
Like any bairn. I spit in my partner's eye
And took a beating for him. I could draw
Honor from any gunsel gave the lie
Direct. A fat man and a slippery dame
Are markers on the pawnshop of the law.
A man should be remembered for his name;
And yet I drank to think of her forbye.

A character I am. I take no fall.
In black and white down these green streets I pass,
Errant and nicely suited. If you call,
Angel, I'll say you made a bonnie lass.

A Stock Response

You start with stocks or pillories, I forget,

Celery, carrots, adultery, and shame.

Noodles, of course, and breasts or bits of thigh,

Steeped and simmered, exposed and ridiculed

And made to represent healthy choice and sin

And dreams of crepuscular orange and azure strolls.

Have another, you look so thin, you have

Tomato on your forehead—someone’s aim

Was pretty good after all. Have you been thinking

About what your father said? You have to speak

After it’s done, you know: what separates

Us from the lower beasts is chat. And veg,

Plucked from their beds at pleasurable peaks,

Simmered and skimmed and pricey past all pearls.

The Age of Gold

           This appeared in Angle.

And then, when the obliging sheep

In colors grow their ready wool,

And knickers fall like ripened fruit

Upon the shaven grass, and crêpes

Suzettes extend until we're full

From bramble bushes, and the flute

Sonatas of the shepherds toot

The flocks in file, the wolves will cull

The weakest for unconstructed suits

And long-johns knitted with extra legs.

Welcome the Age of Martial Bands

And Paperclips and Glitzy Digs

And Varnish on Arthritic Hands.

Mores and mores. Rustic now

Invites the wolf to buy his plow

For peanuts, and the Opus Coots

Disperse small crowds from roadside stands.

Plots and Sods

Older than all of us, they say,

The little blades of grass. They'll wait.
Concrete may spall and roots expand
And fire hydrants blow away.
Smaller wins out. And ain't it great,
They say, that they are quite unmanned

By frost and promises? They brown.
Or they're lopped off, sometimes refaced
By maisonettes, by diamond shops,
And yet they farm. They go to town.
They have seen cenotaphs replaced
By plots and sods. Time never stops.

The Marvells of Fruita

 

On recommendation I have come

To Fruita, hoping there to find

A vegetable life and sweet.

If pears run bareback in the street,

If clad in lucency of rind,

The watermelons strike me dumb,

I can eschew the vice of meat.

I can do seeds.  I’ll leave behind

A life of leg for love of plum.

Instead of one, I’ll love by tree.

Orchards of lovers, each the same

(Allowing for the minor spot

And bruise), will fail; who loves me not,

Need never even bear a name.

A blossom and a bud will be

Two names for each: I’ll love the lot,

Keep them from freezing by my flame,

Pick an extended family,

And build an altar on the hill

That lifts above the Fruita plain.

I’ll bury pits, one to a hole,

And watch the botanizing soul

Of each I loved burst forth again,

Multiplied.  I shall taste my fill,

Haremed upon my grassy knoll,

Summoned by humankind in vain,

Of apples of untainted will.

Tarnish Town

The potentates are marching from St. Paul,

Wearing the hats they stole from desert kings, 

More of them stuffed inside a tiny car 

Than Billy has Spaghetti-Os. The nurse 

Flaunts her prosthetic sword, says Opioids, 

And all fall down. In wheezing lungs, shaved heads, 

And intubated families they fail 

Of faith. The potentates ride in, clean up 

The tarnished town, a sink of billyclubs 

And graft, and scrub the spangled bedroom doors—

They manage with panache and housemaid’s knees. 

The little children smile and pack their bags 

And hide under the porch until the bus, 

The friendly yellow bus with plastic seats, 

Opens its doors and swears it is today.