the penny cool in the middle of your
palm, all creases dashing as
were born, darling, I’m sure of
it, I know
have watched enough babies’
handing me due bronze (copper-tin) coins to
know those lines
anywhere. Lawless as ever, they’re
yours. Do you hear
that? It’s raining
bronze in this, my medallion city. Vegas.
County. I built
The Riviera with pennies stacked
like the one you have there, though
a scar on their cheek never tar
Y God no
my Lincolns are always fresh, well
be stacked into my tall jutty
2018 & people like you are coming from
to try to game
a piece of your own palace, to win
& win a
new life. But
I win. Every time. Lives & lives.
arms you give me everything
but the thin
lines breaking in arches across
calm. I am sparing you. Keep
glinting instressed relic
of your time.
Was it noble,
The bitter austerity of desire
Viol to cello, rampant to redoubled
Phaedrus a litter of souls coupled
There was a hillside farm, a steep one. I saw it.
It was slow to
Perish, floating in a mist of white bees.
My face became strange to me.
The world also.
Charioteer of wounds and bleeding,
What herbs might help
My dead beneath the bright wheels of thousands
Of you? Wild thyme
Was a man once. The upshot and noon inclined
The higher still as early Magdalene.
It was like
palm trees in a line
outside the building
I catch my sight
by: I get it
and it goes. Girl
in her leopard coat.
sweeps up his zone.
the palms, and the sound.
I tune it all out
too, each getting
a rush in. I get
the feeling grows.
my pill daily,
and the days go by
a curb. I leave
now, to turn
I wear the jacket
blue. All over
it was like:
your next in fuss
Few wear gloves
in warm winter.
as if he had me
with his traps.
It was just down
to his face.
When I inhaled
the air of him
I felt as if
I’d only know.
He was sweet
when he talked.
His mouth closed up.
and a cling job.
I came away,
not even changed
by the ripeness of his lips.
In that office
I saw a plant
so green it was like:
I insist. Being
became its own
effect. I lacked
let in a wind,
the moment to
its movement as
I would have it:
my body, proven;
the plant, hanging
It was like snow,
yes, but there
I go, into it.
There are beams
so that support
is some bird
I’m to say who.
As if the good
it does to be good
for me now
won’t fall apart.
I see a bench
on and on.
will motion to
the dirty birds
it was like
to notice, so
I did. And do,
you go, the lighter
it feels, car-wise,
Because it was.
To my amazement, someone is dancing.
Eternal Biedermeier, the sound of windshield wipers
Lulling the car, making of the rain
A beloved shape-shift deeply, my sister’s
Charm bracelet on the wheel rhyming “Ramapo”
With “Brahms’ Alto”, the sound is stronger than hills
Yielding to facts. This is my poem,
A paean to dementia. This embraces
Dementia. The rain conceals a little,
Then is wiped away. The next exit
Toys with the undercarriage gently.
Rain makes a gorgeous pattern on the glass.
Let us begin: we are driving in the rain.
Rampant, redoubled, sister and I see
The rain so beautiful and then an empty
Windshield equally deathless, dazzling
Winter bees with a mountain on each wing.
By noon, nothing remains but romantic litter.
Biedermeier at all the outposts beats,
Whirrs, thuds. One charm upon her bracelet
Rings my eye with emerald around.
The first word of the risen Christ was “Woman”.
Did Magdalene require a further word?
Is there a forgotten country, un pays vague,
Behind the vexed and uxorious country
Forgotten just now? Litter of rain,
Little winter birds suggest as much. The aftermath
Of Bellerophon was olive groves. But see:
The shadows of olive trees turn instantly
To water. Waves of light, in a concourse
Of silver hyphens, drench new patterns of herbs
Near to home. Home is a southern studio.
Mother dotes upon the downing moon.
My sister drives a Biedermeier toy.
To my amazement, someone is dancing.
Agreed. I sat in a house nearby this railroad. A place with two rooms I remember owning. I was cornered there a long time. Hunched over. Fishing in that stove for scraps I hid. Reminds me of
eating. Or rather telling time. Not the stains or that purling in my gut, but the slow blood heavy in my fingertips, lingering underneath, those bloodbanks ready for hulling, as if they
were an open
space, as wide as
a ruined barn
that’s rented, battered or like a raw deal at ten o’clock in the morning, that’s repairing then chafing itself, each time dawn breaks, rasping. I hear it.
In that city, back in the far field of railroad yards, I turned up. Out of the inflamed river and burrowed into the bank’s slop. It was revealed what my sodden wallet held: some nickels
I imagined gently being painted, my face on each one. There were times before now.
Now is not happening
again. The water is deserted
by its river.