Friday, September 27, 2013
The shoppes at Mandalay Bay
are surprisingly similar
to the shops at Luxor,
which are not that different
from the stores inside Excalibur,
which bear a striking similarity
to the ones at NewYork-New York,
remarkable retail locations
reminiscent of those
provided by Monte Carlo
for customers bored with Bellagio
where its boutiques could be mistaken
for fashion hot spots
at Planet Hollywood’s Miracle Mile,
less that a mile from Caesar’s Forum,
a dice toss from their clones
at The Venetian, which imitate
the unique shopping experience
at The Palazzo,
Paris Las Vegas,
The Shops at Crystals,
or, if you can believe your eyes,
at The Mirage
which inspired those
at Mandalay Bay.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Before I understood how hunger
makes a creature mean, my uncle pointed
to the cows on the other side of his fence.
I asked if I could pet one; he said no,
that farm animals were not for pleasure.
I asked if cows drank milk. Once again, no.
Then he plucked a long stem of grass,
stuck it in the space between his front teeth.
I picked one too, gnawed it like a green fuse.
It must have been my first rumination,
this mystery of cows and men conducted
by the slender stalk of grass I held in my hand.
My uncle roused me by jiggling a wire
just inside the fence with his wooden cane.
Go ahead, he urged, your straw will reach.
I heard the snap, then felt an electric
jaw unhinge itself and strike. My uncle
laughed until my aunt called us in to lunch.
Friday, September 13, 2013
After the first tenth of an inch
collects in the rain gauge
the plastic tube vibrates
like an eardrum as the sky
whispers to the earth
how it needs to be heard.
You are in the house
steeping a cup of tea, staring
through a speckled window
as the far off lightning
flashes over mountains
you know but can not see.
Every raindrop is a seed,
a rumor of what it wants to be.
Friday, September 6, 2013
The sign came to rest in a bar ditch,
the entrance nowhere in sight.
Some ways refuse to open themselves,
but the sign should have vanished too.
It lay in the ditch, its DOT yellow
chameleoned by the blossoming sage,
its black lettered warning
muted by the tall grass.
I got off my bicycle for a closer look,
stood on the shoulder and turned in a circle
until I had taken in all there was to see --
fields of hay caught in a crosshatch
of barbed wire, side roll irrigators
gossiping about a slim chance of rain,
and cattle with their heads down,
all pointed in one direction.