Please Read The Prospectus Carefully

 

Congratulations, you've won Paradise.

Don't sweat the taxes, though with a prize like this

You'll get the salesmen and the beggar saints,

The clansmen and the classmates and the shame

That everyone else is licensed to contend

With sin, the petty and the deadly, all

The fallout of an autumn day at home.

But you, you will be here, in Paradise,

With 40,000 gourmet restaurants,

Emerald beaches, one-string harps who play

The Goldberg Variations. You have won

Eternities of room service and sea

Turtles to ferry drinks. (You have the time.)

The waste is heavenly, because there are

Malebolges of malcontents, their misery

Palpable as an egg, grit in their eyes,

Their tears a resin thicker than shaved ice,

And lupus. And the starving tots. Disease

Went AWL, but not so memory,

That vague disquietude, something like gas.

Read the fine print. Sign on the dotty line.

And tell your friends. Oh, tell them twice. We're waiting.

The Boston Swans

I vaguely recollect that there are swans

somewhere famous in Boston, somewhere Lowell

might think them his, a bird grant from the Crown.

He might discuss with Dr Holmes at night,

after the port passed by too many times,

how Zeus had managed Leda. This would pass

for smut among the philocrats, I swan.

“Under a spreading chestnut tree,” they’d laugh.

“Beg pardon?” said the emissary from

the Court of St James. “A longfellow joke,” Lowell said.

“Uh-huh,” said Robert, many years away,

trying to fit both skunk and sour cream

into his recollections of a swan

whose loins devolved a war it could not stop.

The Boston pops have brought their kids to hear

Napoleonic cannon foddering.

They hum as they tuck cobs back in their hampers,

decorously wrapped. Here Ted Williams hit

.400, which was nothing, if you count

percentages left lying in the snow

so Bonaparte could win the Triple Crown,

ambitions learned from Alexander, who

differed from Plato as to Homer’s hit.

Home and away, it all came down to swans.

—In memoriam Paula Tatarunis

This Augurs Well

 

Insensate sensei, say

Something in woodsy pulp,

Suited for cookie dough,

Something you hope will help

The plausible prophesy.

While we are young enough

To clean our plates, predict

Whatever will plot a graph

Good sense would interdict.

I'll study hard. I swear.

No fingers crossed? No fair.

What Do The Old Men Say?

 

What do they mean, who say
The world has gone awry?
The trees leave every day.
I saw them in July,

As green as the heart of man.
I see men stiffly clad,
Colored in gray and tan,
Calling our summer bad

For insufficient shade,
Damning our leaves as small,
Making their wrath a blade,
Hurrying us to fall.

If only our lives were sad,
If we saw that we had
Outlasted our summer stay,
They'd happily love us all
And tidy us away.

Weight Watchers

 

Let them eat cake.

Their teeth will break.

Let them eat bread.

They still will be dead.

They might not eat.

Their dust will be sweet.

Just ask the germs

Inside the worms.

Craftsmen

 

The general says, This is caviare,

Nor am I out of it. Inside the shed

The power tools warm to themselves. They drill

And flatten on the notion that the meek

Outnumber nails and must be driven home,

A smell of revolution in the air,

Like cuts that will not clot, like missing men

Who families have given up and watch

Ice-skating shows in April. It is June.

We have a chance, the general opines,

If taken at the tide, and he retreats.

The skater falls. She bounces up, her sequins

Prisms on a revolving stage of light.

A mitre saw is humming in the shed.

The Shores of Light

               This appeared in Angle.

When on the tepid shore

Of the great and greasy lake,
We greet each other, which
Weapon will you take?

Reproach is never failing,
Forgiveness always new.
I fear the most no light
Dawning between us two,

No pain of recognition,
Nor shock grown frail and old;
But bitter light extinguished,
Unspecified and cold.

When Dis Is Done

 

Nobody thinks about Persephone

That much, though here she is, a normal girl,
Stolen away and raped in Hell by Hades,
Betrayed by fruit, although her mother is
The goddess of breakfast cereal and toast,
Dazed, dim, and bleeding in a sooty place
Even the iron heroes couldn't stomach.
6 months off for good behavior, and 6
Back, was the best deal even Zeus could cut,
And you tell me you have no time to think
Of Proserpine (you see, even the name
Is changing), and the innocent's allowed
A line and a half of Milton, which is more,
My dear, than you and I are due for Hell,
And we were not that innocent, besides.

The Woods Within

 

In woods within the city

The woods pretend to be

More than merely pretty

And decorously twee.

We have an owl and chipmunks

And squirrels and a fox

And almost massive tree trunks.

Mocha Man's two blocks

Away. Falafel King

And Conoco sustain

The needs of those who bring

Both brunch and hope, if rain

Muddies not the footpath

and wetteth not their feet.

The titmice, in mild wrath,

Fall silent, lest they meet

The programmers, the lawyers,

The botanists in clogs,

and eco-tested warriors

With large and tubby dogs.

Bobs and Jimmies

         This appeared in Lyric.

The streets our fathers played in they describe

Over and over, looking out at air

Peopled with places we've been told were theirs,

Home to some far-fetched prehistoric tribe

Of Normans, Bobs, and Jimmies. These are now

Grandsires to a clan who do not hear.

No streetcars run down Skinker. I see how

Amid my life my life could disappear.

Dead Grandpa Shops at Walmart at 4 a.m.

 

Nail clippers, maybe, no more aftershave.

No shiny trainers, sextet of latte cups.

A groundcloth sounds quite nice, and wind-up toys

To fill the void with clackety-clacks and beeps;

But who to wind them up? The waitress said--

Next plot but one--Here, let me freshen that.

Disarming, but without real consequence.

Clean underwear, in case of accident,

Would please The Inner Mom, but accidents

Happen to others now, and he has leaked

And spilled his substance on Aisle 17.

His sepsis seeps away, and all his toys.

The Wells of Time

 

This will transport you to the elder times,

Fire like slabs of meat and smells so strong
They pound the air in dactyls. In a pinch
You can recite your “Please, Sir, send me home,”
There where the heart is, but no wolverines
Or kettles of boiling grease or water nymphs.
What would you give to have your teeth decay
Authentically, to wear a powdered wig,
To spread your plot with nightsoil, or to fetch
A fair price on the open market? Home
Is what you looked like when you were a boy;
But now you’re not. Now you could almost stay
Old as the hills when hills were young, and you
Were cold and muddy. Please, Sir, send me home.

That’s Rory For You

The bugs have their names, too. This one is Rory.

His life was hard and brief. No winged glory Surmounts its end; a splintered carapace Hangs in no hall. He found it no disgrace To die of snow and never tell his story, Nor knew he had a point. And that was Rory.

Nothing of the Kine: An Idyll

 

Horrors, the lazy currents seem to spell

Saxon-ish imprecations on the pond.
Pathetic in their fallacies, the frogs
Croak in distaste; the serried midges form
An arrow pointing at the horrid words,
The word made wet, a stranger in their mist.
If words could kill, we all would die, the cow
Observes beyond her fence. She has been told
All cows eat grass. I don't know if that's true,
She tells her stablemate, but why take chances?
I wager it is so, and so I eat.
Grass is its own reward. The shrieking pond
Is turtle-proud, but in a world of woe,
We keep to beaten ways, as best we can,
And distance ourselves from the shellfish sort,
The gravitas-less insects, and the fowl;
But, oh, how the amphibious betray
Lack of commitment. Low, she says. We're born,
And no one knows a single thing thereafter.

The Tempest

 

The air is full of music, but the isle

Gets bad reception. Under every rock
Scamper the grubs that were somebody else--
Will be again. The Ghost of Christmas Past
Or The Nobel Prizewinner for the Blues.
Thrones go unoccupied, but fires set
At twilight smell of camphor, and great moths
Sing little liebestods while sailing in.
The stars are green. True love never runs smooth,
But walks at a brisk pace. The wind blows warm
Across the bay, where seals on plaster rocks
Snore gently, dreaming dreams of fish. The eyes
Of magi close as well. The roads are waxed:
Young lovers slip away, concealed by mist
Imported just for them. It rains and rains.
It rains and rains, and ships capsize, the crews
Borne to the shore on water wings. They find
The aborigines, diaphanous
In raindrops, dancing pas de deux, de trois,
Wrapped round themselves and singing, Liberty.

The House the Hoarder Had

It’s 90 in the shade. The hawthorn shares

Its leaves, its thorns, botanical debris,

And squirrels and does it all ungrudgingly,

All without affect. If it thinks, it thinks

Of roots and where they’re headed, of the nice

Vitreous clay pipe a little to the south,

Not of the hoarder and the house she had

Across the street. Tornadoes would have loved it.

The ambience was right, the floor a blitz

Of concrete, mud, and glass. It showed no shame

And more shade, even, than the hawthorn tree;

And shades await, if all the tales are true,

Across the tracks from piles of beauty books,

Tampon boxes, milk of magnesia sweet

As locust shells, and bags of dried-up pens.

The hawthorn leaves are planning for October.