MARVEL THE MUSTANG

“he’s almost for real…”

And to think that

we’d fall for that,

to spur a lame-ass

plastic horse to

go faster, as if

he’s Pegasus

and we’re galloping

across Greek skies

or we’re some kind of

bronc-bustin cowboy

herdin’ cattle

across the Rio

Whatever, hell,

the spell broke

after the third

time you dug your

spurs into that

hollow-bellied 

horse, how could this 

mutant mustang match 

the stick ponies of 

your youth?

yarn manes flying

in the west wind,

you could giddyup

across the west

pony express style,

tie up at the

saloon hitchin 

post and belt back 

shots of redeye 

pepsi, gun down 

the bad guys and 

save the town from 

rustlers and  outlaws,

all you needed was

a star and a 

steed to be the 

stuff of legend.

ARLENE, 1963

Arlene, my love, you are

nothing short of spectacular, chewing pink bubble gum

and blowing bubbles as

you click your spike heels on the pavement, smoking Chesterfields

and squinting at the boys --

auto shop hoods blowing

luggies out the window, hair tonic and toothpick studs

punching each other’s arms

as Mr. Fuller lectures on the wonders of the two-stroke

engine, “I gotcher two-stroke

engine” right here says Hyet, thinking of Arlene in her

nylons and garter belt

peeking from her poodle

skirt, she’s got nice fat calves, cinnamon nude, torpedo tits

that waggle the shop boys’ tongues.

So on their third date not

in her dad’s Studebaker but Hyet’s chopped Chevy hot as

the chrome pipes draped behind

mag wheels, this is no canasta-playing Ford Comet it’s

a metal-flaked hot rod made

for necking and drinking Blatz, so at the drive-in where

they’re playing “Francis the

Talking Mule” flicks Hyet’s shoving his hands down Arlene’s thighs

and grinding his tongue down         

her creamsicle throat like a squid bobbing in the ocean

and cajoling her to grab

his Hearst three-speed stick and when she does he yanks the speaker

from the window and tears

out, rooster-tailing gravel on the hoods of the shop heads

jacking visions of Arlene.

THE CELEBRANTS' ASANA

1.


Harmony asked her friends 
in the infinity pool if they'd heard about the woman 
on Fox who was evicted.  
"She was crazy," she said, "the sherriff refused to do it.  
It took three years. Three years! 
That's why I got voted onto the board." "That's insane," said
Meredith, shivering, 
her breasts bobbing in the healing waters. In this circle
they all spread their arms as 
if to breathe life again into that ancient Dionysian
ritual. Chloe squinted 
at the clock through the sun: "I thought that was a sundial," she 
said. "No," Diana said.
"I think it's some kind of mandala," Rachel said, she 
waded over to get 
a better look and sure enough it's both! Harmony at last. 


2.  


We're all in thick cashmere robes, barefoot polar bears leaving
the meditation lounge 
to enter the mystic mist rising from the sacred pools,
some of us holding sacred
stones in our hands, some of us toting sacred champagne in
flutes, the air is crystalline,
shudderingly cold in its sacred purity, breath-
taking cold!, but the mist
is ticklishly warm, vapors condensing to cool tingling
rivulets on our skin.
We slide free from our sacred robes and slip down into the
warm waters, our healing
Ganges, and slowly as we squint in the scintillations 
we are reborn, buoyant in
the bubbling grottoes, our limbs unraveling, we are sacred
jellyfish, bodies blooming
in the tender aqueousness, limp, our faces staring
up through the sacred steam,
praying for the sun to burn through the mist, so elemental,
the screes from the eagles
circling somewhere overhead in the sacred blue, soaring
in that infinity pool
beyond this sacred spring nestled in the hallowed pines. 


3.


Oh it's all hens and drakes here at the spa, lovely barelegged
women sleeping in the
sacred cabana chairs, their rivers of hair swept in towels 
and drinking cucumber
water, exhilarating in their exfoliated 
radiance, the men still 
sandaled and robed, their minds rubbed free of any any earthly
desire beyond the sacred
song of flesh itself, sated and staring not at the
glowing legs and arms, but
at the sacred ring of fire, sacred flames rising from stone,
staring in a strange 
philosophical mood they've rarely known, no penetrating
words or concepts here, just
a hint of some dignity, a loneliness of some sacred
source, not fear, not lust, but
some ineffable something, something slippery, something they 
cannot return to again.


4.  


Each of us here in this astral plane, this way station,
is suffering. That's what
the Buddhists say, so here, among the men staring into the
emptiness and the women 
floating on the sun's unconsciousness, we're suffering
while just beyond the wall 
we hear the grackles' cold cries, plaintive, the agony 
of being cast here, orphans,
unfulfilled in the sun, their black and purple fate awaiting them,
our fate shared in these 
vessels. these bodies always wanting, wanting, something we
will never know, praying
in sacred chants, sacred aches, there is no relief from 
this being, this wanting, this
incessant insistence, this persistent urge to know
what we will never know.

EARLY SPRING

“Don't turn around, your gypsy heart”

U2

It started on the coldest of days, walking back in the

wind and snow, shivering and

face-chapped after a day buried in the dull stacks that smelt

of Dewey and Veblen

and Hemingway, penciled notes scribbled in the margins,

witnesses from a time

of meaning, when there was a purpose, not like now when we

agree not to think hard

anymore, it was all behavior, and so walking in

the snow it seemed so cold

when that maroon Buick appeared from the flurries and you

stormed out in a t-shirt, 


bare arms hugging yourself, you trudged off into the flurries 
and I was afraid, 
so much passion in such bitter cold, scorched by your hot

syllables exploding

the air, I tried to offer you my snorkel coat but you’d

disappeared in snow, a ghost.

Come Spring when all the ballyhoos of forsythia burned

their glaring yellow in

yards of mud my cat Henry prowled the grass tracing the Spring

and found it in your house,

he wandered through the open door and curled asleep on your bed.

You invited me in

to retrieve him, this ruminant philosopher, this skinny

black Lothario, this

bundle of behaviors, this stimulus-response machine,

there we stood, you in your

overalls skirt, Henry in his finest black fur curled up

on your bed and me in

my St. Vincent de Paul finest thinking I dare not look so

I grabbed Henry and took off

only later to drop a letter in your box, a poem

I’d written right after

I’d locked the cat inside, it was a lark, something I was

sure you’d laugh at and scorn,

wad up and curse, I was happy to have sent it so I 
could return to the stacks

that smelt of old hay, to Emerson and Thoreau in that 
false spring, and knock my head

against sentences that taxed my frugal brain. When you wrote back 
my hands shivered,

I was reading about the oversoul, of all things, and 
just not buying it, it 


was the 70’s, there seemed to be something and nothing
at all there, all the 
Baba Ram Dass “Be Here Now” 
shit among dusty museum fetuses floating in 
flecked formaldehyde jars,

cold buoyant bundles of stimuli and response severed
from the world of feeling

and yet feeling and thought was everything, wasn’t it?, the 
poems and letters in our

mailboxes appearing every night, we saw Jr. Walker 
and the All-Stars play

“Shotgun” and when we walked home that night we were not lovers, 


we weren’t really talking 
except daring each other’s presence and when I reached
for your hand as we crossed 
the railroad tracks you pulled it back, but later that night,
sitting on the wicker sofa 
and reading the paper you pretended not to know me 
and yet there you were,

abstract and concrete, we slept on my mattress with the moon-

light on us, agreeing

to keep it decent but naked, like Emerson, you were

so lovely, so stoic

so smart and so real, and your gypsy heart, your itinerant

fortune-telling heart, turning

and turning as you danced, I could not face you, or myself,

that Spring, without fear, without

tiring of Thoreau living in his shack, without feeling

what I felt, spelled by a

gypsy and a cat, each evening returning to that

mailbox praying there’d be          

another letter answering my poems, hoping there’d be

no letter, not tonight,

I could feel your heart turning and turning, this time in my

chest, and how one dances

with that, so suddenly alone and feeling, alive.

ARLENE, 1963

Arlene, my love, you are

nothing short of spectacular, chewing pink bubble gum

and blowing bubbles as

you click your spike heels on the pavement, smoking Chesterfields

and squinting at the boys --

auto shop hoods blowing

loogies out the window, hair tonic and toothpick studs

punching each other’s arms

as Mr. Fuller lectures on the wonders of the two-stroke

engine, “I gotcher two-stroke

engine” right here says Hyet, thinking of Arlene in her

nylons and garter belt

peeking from her poodle

skirt, she’s got nice fat calves, cinnamon nude, torpedo tits

that waggle the shop boys’ tongues.

So on their third date not

in her dad’s Studebaker but Hyet’s chopped Chevy hot as

the chrome pipes draped behind

mag wheels, this is no canasta-playing Ford Comet it’s

a metal-flaked hot rod made

for necking and drinking Blatz, so at the drive-in where

they’re playing “Francis the

Talking Mule” flicks Hyet’s shoving his hands down Arlene’s thighs

and grinding his tongue down         

her creamsicle throat like a squid bobbing in the ocean

and cajoling her to grab

his Hearst three-speed stick and when she does he yanks the speaker

from the window and tears

out, rooster-tailing gravel on the hoods of the shop heads

jacking visions of Arlene.

FERRYMAN

He drove the Studebaker down
the two-rut road to rent a painter


he pushed off into the minnows
and shadows they cast on the sand


then the uneasy adjustment
to buoyancy, lock in the oarpins


and we traveled across the lake
in patient pulls--we could feel


the muscle with each stroke, my brother
in the stern marking our progress


to the marsh, I was on point looking
back on his sunburnt face, the knot


of dark hair above his walnut eyes,
a stranger to us when we reached


the channel and slowed over slick weeds
and muck that pucker and popper


obscenely among the bullfrogs.
We pushed and sloughed through


corndog grass and water lilies
the tea-colored water, we grabbed


clumps of reeds and pulled our clumsy
boat deeper, swarmed by dragonflies


and mosquitoes and sweatblind
we stared at the lone red-winged


blackbird guarding a drowned tree
as the first cool air slipped over our skin


and we emptied into the hidden
lake, slicing easy as a dolphin


into the green water, he threw
the inner tube over and we dove into


the warm aquarium sunlight and clung
to the rubber skin while he pulled


that same strong patient pull as we
circled the lake, weeds rubbing our


skinny legs like limp snakes, through
the islands of slippery lily pads,


our toes scrapping the spongy muck
and in the middle feeling the faint


cold pulling our pollywog bodies


behind the unspoken man we
called father, the Admiral, the


great ferryman lugging us
in this private watery world. 

WHITE PELICANS

Those white
     pelicans
in the grey bay


     sliding
by, sliding the neap
     backwards


looking back
     at the bay
now swelling


they are agents
     of time
floating phenomena


penetrating
     the future slick
as you please


staring down
     into the past
for fish, for


something deeper
     than what they
learned aeons ago


     sure it's
one thing to
     skim


the wrinkles
     at sunset
as you fill your gullet


     here it's
easy, just gaze
     into the past


with the prescience
     the perfect
knowledge


of where
    the fish
lurk


     now as you
pluck them
     as you please


like reading
     this, writing
this, don't think


     too hard
he'd say
     as if he knew


it would all
     work out,
you'll never be


     satisfied,
don't even
     try.

AFTER THE DISRUPTION

No one
     comes here 
          anymore


          in the garden
     of earthly delights
the bayside


pools are pools
     of floating 
          palm fronds


          and feathers
     the egret fountains
that once 


spit water
     in delicate arcs
          are still


          there are no 
     lox or omlettes  
on the breakfast 
     
verandah, no
     mimosas, just
          deck chairs sprawled


          everywhere, no 
     mojitos or frappacinos
just mockingbirds


and wing-flapping 
     grackles disturbing
          the palmettos


          pelicans napping
     on the busted
pier posts, ospreys


roosting in 
     the cupola,
          fetching their 


          daily haul 
     of silver fish, 
heron and ibis


stalking the shore--
     all the splendor
          of the bay


          the honeyed mango
     sweetness and oranges,
the turquoise water


and brassy sunset
     bleeding on
          the surface of


everything, it's
     a squatter's spoils,
          this ramshackle 


          hotel, the bohemians
     have all split 
for their squalor


elsewhere, the 
     vagrants occupying
          the spoils 


          of babylon
     took over as we
knew they would.

AFTER THE MIGRAINE

and the shimmering blindness,

the carnival whirl-a-gig

spins you in centripetal

flush -- the alligator man

escapes under his tent

in a house-of-mirrors flash,

it's all snow cones and

cotton candy, corndogs

and pigshit, blue ribbon

mincemeat and sour cream pies,

fusty peanuts, lipstick and

ring toss, anything is possible,

the mutant, the grotesque, the superhuman,

you'll write that novel on

the human condition, a tragic

folly, rush out to your old

high school flame and smooch

under the bleachers, you'll

read poetry for god's sake,

cummings and ginsberg and

ferlinghetti, you'll take up

ballroom dancing, do the fox trot,

construct a new grammar

from stone, hike the Andes

to reach the ancient city,

drink the blood sacrifice,

touch the face of god and spit

into the sad Pacific rain,

smoke cigarettes with Kafka

in the cobbled streets of Prague,

drink Pernod, absinthe and mescal,

and bigod that's just this morning,

before you retreat to your

monastery and chant the vespers

in the stone garden and watch

the dissolution of the world's

insistence, all the

distractions, the senses now

muffled and time unraveled

in the eternal zen moment.

It is the agony of God

any way you look at it,

penance for beauty,

and thought, and just being

itself, redemption

for ever waking in

the first place

NO HANDS

GOSPEL

The fact that nothing
whatsoever comes to mind,
springs into being so to speak,
should be evidence alone:
Caveat emptor! Abandon
all hope ye who enter here
because the fact is that
there's nothing here,
not a single ordinary thing,
no idea, no nuance, not
even the shred of an idea,
a tainted memory, no,
you're on your own, my friend,
you must provide
your own content, your own
image, it's like those
art kids say, I don't have
an intent, it's what the viewer
brings, I let the reader see
what the reader wants to see.
it's all relative gobbledygook
anyway, a hullabaloo of signs
that signify nothing but
their own presence.
So when your eyes
pass over these marks, here,
these glyphs, these scrapes
of pen, you're only looking
at evidence that some thing
scratched against this
surface, nothing more, right?
Like that feeling when you
were sitting in church
in your acolyte robe,
sleeves sweeping down
like great wings, watching
the altar candles flicker,
the thin wisp of smoke
drifting up to the stained glass
dove and the hand of Mary,
how the flame glimmered
on the gold cross!
The pastor's voice swelled
as he delivered the sermon
about the Light of the World!
The sun streamed down on the
congregation in rainbows
where dust motes floated
freely like some swirling
galaxy of wonder and
it's only when the pastor said
"And the Light went out!" that
you saw the candles
extinguish their flames as if
the cool breath of the Holy Spirit
had blown across the church,
how empty it all seemed
so suddenly, so full of people
drowsing, the organist stirring
for the processional, calling
you to minister to the holy flame

and snuff out the candles

but no divine spark remained

and so you proceeded as

an impostor parading your

candle lighter through

the singing congregation,

wondering Is this a sign?,
like the sign of the fish
and the pentecostal flame
now flickering in your head.

LESSON

for Ron Bitticks

We met in the studio, cold

and empty save for Carrie's paintings

large and encrusted with oils, a

bas relief of the ethereal,

luminescent strokes,

oyster and blue gray,

the shimmering mist of light

somehow refracted through the soul,

mesmerizing, the iridescent

elan vital that envelops us

like a halo.

We stood before her paintings,

six visions of essence, and

prepared for the crit. There was

a stillness, an awe, a shuddering,

the four of us afraid to talk,

pacing the warehouse floor, waiting

for a question, any question,

to relieve the silence. The

professor broke the trance and

led us to the imbecility of words,

disjointed syllables, clumsy

sentences in the presence of

so much mind. "Well, what is this?"

he asked, as if the words had

never been strung together

quite this way, as if this was

the very first question we'd

heard. There was more nervous

banter of hands, shifting feet,

"What are these trying to be?"

There were jabs of words,

fits and starts, sudden pile-ups

of uncertainty, retraced, vocables,

curiosities. "These are the feet,"

someone said, "suggesting a body

somehow floating in the luster--

it's as if the air itself, the very

atmosphere, is some silvery

substantiality, like you see

at the shore when the sun

blinds you in the mist, that haze."

"It's like some new era being

born," someone added, "yes,"

another chimed in, "the world

vanishing, dissipating

into spirit." The professor

strolled before the paintings,

embarrassed by his very presence,

tuggingh at his mustache.

the poised inquisitor, the stentor,

impatient with life. "I wonder,"

he asked, "if there are any questions

from the painter?" There were none

excerpt, at the anguished unfolding

of hands, her skinny fingers splotched

with coppery pigment and a

tainted agony, she asked

"What do you think?" We stuttered

and stammered, unequal to

so much tremulous light

surrounding us, our eyes lost

in the mysterious mystic.

"You've done it!" the professor

shouted, somewhere between a

laugh and a forced confession,

and we all parted ways, nodding,

knowing something more than

he could possible say.