That Old Black Magic

 

Ants, they may whisper, but they’re hoping for
Something preposterous, something more the size
Of Cincinnati, something which can catch
A mortgage in mid-air and snap its neck.
They may say shadows, even in the dark,
But what they mean are little men with knives,
Carving their names in the venetian blinds,
Altering light. Dressed up they may exude
The confidence of snipers, but they wear
An amulet of frog hair on each wrist,
Boasting that they walked miles to cure DTs.
Under the bed the suitcase is packed, the tag
Tied with a chain cased in a plastic sleeve,
Directing it to To Whom It May Concern.

The One and Only Spring

 

Spring left a note. It is not coming back.

Another spring, impostor, may be here,

May look and sound and smell like spring, sincere,

Display the right credentials, have the knack

Of daffodil and cuckoo, but it won’t

Be spring. Which left. Which took its green away

And said it loved us, but it could not stay.

They say they are forever, but they don’t

Make promises, the crocus and the leaf,

Or mean to. By Be patient, they mean Grief

Comes in a wicker basket, every day.

It Doesn't Scan

 

On the east coast of that unheated isle

A tribe of girls survives whose creed consists

Chiefly of singing Happy Fathers' Day

To someone else's father. No males found,

Which makes their culture something of a glitch.

Essentially they beat their boys and float

Young women out to sea at menstruation.

They mate with wind. We do not understand.

The central islanders claim their descent

From great Odysseus. Their Bronze Age rites

Are pure enough to justify their claim,

They know so many chanties about axe-

Hacked thews of sailors; but they haven’t heard

Of boats, making their worship of wet gods

Ironical and plausible and high

Fun for the Left Coast credit-carding clans

Who hold their wives in common, but who keep

Their cowries to themselves. The wives have heard

Reports of the East Coast; though misinformed,

They yearn to ship their kids to school back there.

Cartoon Love

 

1

Ye Olde McDuck notwithstanding, swimming

in shekels never seemed much fun—the crunch

and jingle of a pool? No, maybe not.

But think about the Beagle Boys voyeuring,

the salivating nephew in his sailor

blues, the troika jabbering like woodchucks;

and every ducklette Duckburg knows is damp,

ready to peel her thong off in the bullion.

Throw the poolboy a grand gratuity

and drive Miss Daisy off to the cabana.

Under a smiley moon Donald sings love

songs to the jangle of the ukulele.

No one can understand a consonant.

Is pain more painful when you're bottom duck?

2

Beep beep. Boop boop. The flapper runs full tilt

at the canyon wall, perspective in her head

enough to carry her though paint and stone.

The coyote follows, thinking her the bird,

the acme of his hope, dinner. Sees stars.

They say that men get off on buxom drawings,

pulchritudinous bunnies, collagened.

Granny passes on bulldogs stuffed with pecs.

She's holding out for tabloid zillionaires.

You dream of Tweety with the light brown hair?

Consider life insurance and tuition.

The coyote runs, his legs a blurring wheel,

and falls for lack of faith, the canyon floor

rising. He passes the anvil on his way.

Solstice Song

 

1 Angels think of little of consequences

on mornings like this, cold like steel thawing.

Singing chorales so old they sound avant-

us to mortal tympani, they rejoice

all over my clean walk. If snow could sing,

it would sing like this, crooning in low brass.

2 The Wise Men travelled in 3s. Stooges, too,

and Blind Mice. Whereas, the Angels keep watch

in companies, recruit the clergy, old

old women whose grandsons went up in flames,

and pods, squads, prides, and bright congregations.

We are well cared for in our ignorance.

3 You write from the Berkshires that all is well,

your husband having found a new wife, more

than 1/3 his age, and your sleep unmarred

by magic realism. An Angel, dressed

as a weather vane, surmounts your peaked roof

and chortles. Alleluia. All is Clear.

4 Through these white nights we trail crimson roses,

Ariadne's string. The Angels retrieve

them, smell them, watch them fade, flowers bestowed

on cheek and breast, but temporarily.

Our sin was not forever, but will do.

Steel gives way. And snow, caught by the great spruce.

Yo, Muse

 

Either because you're visiting

other, meritless versifiers

or because you’re trapped in a holding

pattern on your quills, I haven’t heard

much from you lately. The lamp’s been on,

my study casement has been unlatched;

but you’ve been off, I guess, teaching gaunt

refugees new names for old sorrows

or at Oxbridge again, haunting quads,

looking for lost honors. The floor’s swept

here, cushions plumped, and the bedskirts tucked

up. Warm milk, thick port, cheesy biscuits,

all are handy, but the oak bookshelves

are warping, and the old bindings crack

in this backwater clime. As for you,

my pretty, what else have I to do

but wait for a slot to open up

in your grey kidskin Life At A Glance?

Far From Lucky Fer

 

Lately, she said, I have been anywhere

But home. It has a name like Lucky Fer

Or Dottle on the Wold. I can’t recall.

Under the placard of the Wain & Wheel

I dropped a stitch; since, nothing’s been the same.

Except the weather. Only goats and old

Couples, planning their schedule of buffets,

Talk weather. I’ve not been home in a while,

There, where the ogres show off photographs

Of me in rompers, me in maryjanes,

Me at the top of Mt. St. My Backyard.

Fools and hearses live there. At my day school

The smartest girls are crying loudest. Roughs

Trade your pocket change for their oaths and blows.

Chickens display their legs; the best boys beat

Time with them. Down, they holler. Sweet, get down.

Bastard’s the town for me, a red-brown mess

Of clay and jalapeños. I have changed

My name for numbers. I am 26

This week. Next time it may be more or less,

The number of my blessings on the road.

Damme & Blast, still working on my wheels,

I won’t shove off tonight. Texas must wait.

Nightlife is like a punishment. I’ll sleep,

She says a bunch. Under the swinging sign

of Fills-A-Lot, she asked for regular

And washroom. She said, Knowing when you need

New belts and filters, all your fluids topped,

Is like a transplant: life beats in me yet.

She was on foot and headed to the east.

I been there, she said. I been everywhere.

And if you’ll cash my check, I will be gone.