Migration
When they came to arrest the woman,
you sat there, stone quiet,
a scabrous statue
pondering your own existence,
the shape of your navel,
the inability to smell your own breath,
and other trivialities of no real consequence.
Wishing you were different
never changed you yet.
She adored you once,
kept little pieces of paper
full of your clever witticisms
hidden in a shoebox in the back of her closet.
Then Australia separated you forever
and you lost your edge
and she vowed to not wear yellow again.
Our familial ties connect us
in ways our blood never quite did.
She looks at your old picture
and imagines your lips, your body,
in ways that real life never provided,
fulfilled through recurring drunken desire
and eventual moans of amazement.
Two birds flown off in separate directions
long ago
may never meet again.
Such is nature, these mirrors that reflect us,
such is life.
Campaign kiss
There’s nothing worth wearing
unless it makes some statement.
Such are the words spat at us,
awaiting your command
here in the cramped press room
outside the cushy hotel’s convention center.
This is not the deal anyone
had signed on for those long months prior,
when still we bathed in naïve beliefs
about one person able to make a difference.
Now it’s all threats and attitudes,
smirks and Smirnov chasers,
and standing up to unseen enemies
that battle us and also lurk within.
Money is the problem,
and perhaps the answer too.
You wish this happy hour extended
well into the work week,
that you were back on the farm,
part and parcel of
that imaginary childhood
pulled out whenever convenient.
We are slaves to statistics,
tied to poll numbers and media trendings,
and while I’d like to believe your passion
when you unfold me in that tiny space,
I know you are driven by ulterior motives
no one else could ever fathom.
You bid us a staccato welcome
and send us on our respective ways,
working tables under this chandelier glare,
raking nuance from belief
in what some third-string reporter
will inevitably call progress.
Yearbook Entry
That time you joined the circus just to spite me, to prove that clowns were not necessarily so scary (though they really are), and the postcard you sent reminding me that your name is a verb, that you are a person of action, how you will invent your own greatness someday, in spite of having such tiny handwriting, how you fell in love with the word persimmon, but felt slightly angered at the closely aligned pomegranate, how you are moody in ways that encourage moodiness in others, but destined to make matches of unsuspecting strangers the world over, because that is your special talent, the way you can be so clinically certain when others don’t even know their own hearts, this is what I think of when I think I see you from a distance at the county fair, glimpsed fleetingly from the tilt-a-whirl, then realize you are probably not even on this continent, more likely smoking long French cigarettes at some dark café near the Seine, wearing a silly beret that, on you, looks great.
Simile
You said I was like a bridge:
connecting things, strong.
I politely disagreed –
my foundations were far too weak.
Sure enough,
when she first tried to cross me,
I collapsed.
The Beckoning
You wave your hand deftly
as if it were a barometer
measuring the ugly rage of the season,
the impassioned screams yet to be voiced
by a frightened confused populace.
The code signs of an angry aggregate,
the chaos exchanged for dreams of a better life,
are no longer inscrutable, easily broken
into innate understandings.
It’s gang matters of temper and territory,
rights of wrongs and, as you give
the all-clear sign, the breeze of hell blows
easily into the unsuspecting night ahead.
Concentric circles abound here, and as
you negotiate the labyrinths required,
that nervous grin is what worries us all.
When they came to arrest the woman,
you sat there, stone quiet,
a scabrous statue
pondering your own existence,
the shape of your navel,
the inability to smell your own breath,
and other trivialities of no real consequence.
Wishing you were different
never changed you yet.
She adored you once,
kept little pieces of paper
full of your clever witticisms
hidden in a shoebox in the back of her closet.
Then Australia separated you forever
and you lost your edge
and she vowed to not wear yellow again.
Our familial ties connect us
in ways our blood never quite did.
She looks at your old picture
and imagines your lips, your body,
in ways that real life never provided,
fulfilled through recurring drunken desire
and eventual moans of amazement.
Two birds flown off in separate directions
long ago
may never meet again.
Such is nature, these mirrors that reflect us,
such is life.
Campaign kiss
There’s nothing worth wearing
unless it makes some statement.
Such are the words spat at us,
awaiting your command
here in the cramped press room
outside the cushy hotel’s convention center.
This is not the deal anyone
had signed on for those long months prior,
when still we bathed in naïve beliefs
about one person able to make a difference.
Now it’s all threats and attitudes,
smirks and Smirnov chasers,
and standing up to unseen enemies
that battle us and also lurk within.
Money is the problem,
and perhaps the answer too.
You wish this happy hour extended
well into the work week,
that you were back on the farm,
part and parcel of
that imaginary childhood
pulled out whenever convenient.
We are slaves to statistics,
tied to poll numbers and media trendings,
and while I’d like to believe your passion
when you unfold me in that tiny space,
I know you are driven by ulterior motives
no one else could ever fathom.
You bid us a staccato welcome
and send us on our respective ways,
working tables under this chandelier glare,
raking nuance from belief
in what some third-string reporter
will inevitably call progress.
Yearbook Entry
That time you joined the circus just to spite me, to prove that clowns were not necessarily so scary (though they really are), and the postcard you sent reminding me that your name is a verb, that you are a person of action, how you will invent your own greatness someday, in spite of having such tiny handwriting, how you fell in love with the word persimmon, but felt slightly angered at the closely aligned pomegranate, how you are moody in ways that encourage moodiness in others, but destined to make matches of unsuspecting strangers the world over, because that is your special talent, the way you can be so clinically certain when others don’t even know their own hearts, this is what I think of when I think I see you from a distance at the county fair, glimpsed fleetingly from the tilt-a-whirl, then realize you are probably not even on this continent, more likely smoking long French cigarettes at some dark café near the Seine, wearing a silly beret that, on you, looks great.
Simile
You said I was like a bridge:
connecting things, strong.
I politely disagreed –
my foundations were far too weak.
Sure enough,
when she first tried to cross me,
I collapsed.
The Beckoning
You wave your hand deftly
as if it were a barometer
measuring the ugly rage of the season,
the impassioned screams yet to be voiced
by a frightened confused populace.
The code signs of an angry aggregate,
the chaos exchanged for dreams of a better life,
are no longer inscrutable, easily broken
into innate understandings.
It’s gang matters of temper and territory,
rights of wrongs and, as you give
the all-clear sign, the breeze of hell blows
easily into the unsuspecting night ahead.
Concentric circles abound here, and as
you negotiate the labyrinths required,
that nervous grin is what worries us all.
