Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Distance Between Two Beings
Time machines collect in the yard
like salvaged cars, travelers arriving
but forgetting where they parked.
Generally the sky streaks
with meteoric splendor
when another machine shows up.
The boy who hands out
receipts never sees
his patrons’ eyes. He’s afraid of
that far away look,
so he stares at his own feet
holding his ten toes accountable.
No valet, he leaves the machines
where they land, shields
his eyes as a silvery light
stitches the moment closed.
Above the yard constellations
like jewels in an old pocket watch
cradle the gears of longitude,
calibrating the distance between
one generation and the next.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The gas powered auger churns
snow like a espresso maker
whipping froth for a latte.
I am clearing the driveway again,
thinking about a hot cup-a-something
when I’m finally done.
But it’s still snowing
and the blow-back threatens to bury me
alive, one hand, ungloved,
sticking out of a six-foot drift.
I’d be the last of the five-fingered shrubs
from a garden of humans beings,
white blossoms against a thin limb,
icicle leaves. In the numbing
twilight before drifting to sleep
I’d recall how the snow used to fall
all pretty, like in a globe,
stirred when gently shaken.
The flashing snowplow thunders past
and I’m roused from my reverie,
the snowblower still gouging a path,
me in its wake with the fumes
of burning oil trailing
like the perfume of dinosaurs.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
How Many Lives Rush Through
The mullioned window
makes a pattern on the wall
projected by the evening sun.
I’m counting diamonds,
a jeweler of the ethereal trade
squandering the moment.
In the chair beside me
you are reading a book, a whodunit
that takes place in Egypt
when pharaohs wore cones of wax
to keep their scalps cooled.
Someone has died, someone
is dying, someone contemplates
death. You pause to look up
from the page as all my riches fade.
In the lamplight we are just two again.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Last of Anything
In a white bowl the last baked potato
wrapped in a tinfoil spacesuit
waits to be chosen.
This is what the potato imagines
from his ceramic saucer,
having survived extreme heat
just to be here, a pulp fantasy
story announced by a yellow headline:
The Last One Alive!
A scantily clad woman with breasts
the size of melons has fainted
across the dinner table, her torn blouse
exposing her supple skin
for the rubber monster’s
a ray gun pointed toward the heart
of the rogue artichoke, a sonic
against its armor, as if a hand
strangely human might still reach
from all the way across the universe.