Stopped watch

Stopped watch
A noise you can undress
is revealed by clock hands
moving not a fraction
toward the top of the hour,


During the break,
presidents of lost countries
walk down planks
from ships onto Hudson River docks,
confetti blocks the sun,

There are times when
it would be nice to land
on an air carrier dressed
up for Halloween,
a President with a plan that won’t fly,
A nation keeps looking at its watch
and wonders
why this show isn’t canceled,
why do we keep waiting
for the good guys to arrive,
is there a way to get
to the news faster,

To find what happened
while we collected
every image on
digital memory
to be viewed when
there are neither sheep
to be counted nor
rough water to tread?

Philosophy you open bottles with

For the glory of Candlestick Park
these matches defy
your vagrant bluster,
they light their intended ends
and. then fade to black
half—way across the pitching mound,
either curling up or bowing down
to the press box rafters.

Second of all, I would think
that you’d wish more than
a fine—how-do—you-do
in a borrowed car.
In later years,
they- who -know- such —and — such
and you—know—who
might say and even believe
that sex—wax is a very malleable thing.
One solution: practice your sailors’ knots
and keep the evidence in your back pocket,
in case you're asked about
what really went down.

Try this on for size:
hold a flame thrower
at arms length
and try to blow it out.
if you’re not able
to extinguish the flame,
you should check yourself
into the nearest
stop—smoking clinic.

Finally,soft drinks consumed
through a straw
tastes their best
when you're not laughing
or watching the horse you bet on
drop dead at the starting gate.

House

Needy fingers making
a path through your hair,
a new part where a comb finds
the soul under the brain
that keeps you
wondering about the world,

Lustful italics
contain consonants
that are not quite
the words we
started to speak,

Those nights, half asleep,
a small fist raps your back,
floorboards groaning
the way they do in old houses
sagging, tired lumber ,
all that's left for spring is laughter
and fear when everyone
goes out doors again after dark,
testing door knobs
with a twist of the wrist,
it wasn't you ,
you say, only the house
or some such thing,

Shared chills or beads of sweat,

the double “s” molding prevailed,

every position and posture

on the mattress a buried language,

nothing weighs less than an unwanted ton,

we change positions

as if speaking too fast for court reporters,

"I hope I don't dream" you say,

" or if I do,

let it be of a big black wall

with nothing on it,

just blackness, blackness..."

The apartment is so quiet
that the refrigerator
sings us to sleep,
a high, whistling serenade

We drift off

as headlights flash

across the ceiling

and car radios play music pulled

from the air from other states,

we drift off as the house
sinks deeper
into an earth
that wants everything returned.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some views of Rose Canyon

I've been watching you from the other side of the drapes,
trucks from all over the county mark their progress with forks,
the elements conspire surprises on any birthday they desire,
you would be a frequent flyer if only Madrid were in Ohio,


The drapes I mentioned are early '70s' Akron, a gift of love,
all the money from GMAC couldn't limit the cyclone fences,
Surprise that it's sleet on the day of your coming out,
wouldn't you rather have permission than excuses?,

Tender love and double breasted jackets, a milk dish, some muffins,
If only words were worth the page that was never a forest to start with,
The climate of the times is birthday cakes and asphalt on lawn chairs,
Or was I just interested in drapes at that, or the window, and not you?,


We go on drinking in the sights through amber lenses,
She doesn’t think and she doesn’t care, and her opinions are firm like tits
A love of money and words turns into magazines and all night fist fights,
Relative spunk of the last promise is a dark stain on those beloved drape




Today, even the cigarette hand is rubbing me the wrong way,
Trucks from over the county line leave limits of warranties in barrels,
He was thinking she was breathing the air all wrong too much heaving,
Objects fly across the room like they do on re-runs, please scratch your nose,



Birthdays turn cold like lovers and faucets but weather happens
every shred of the remaining days, Patio decks suspended in air by planks of a platform from a party
full of surprises that demands that hills not roll but resemble
steps for terraces and patios that jut out like jaws of a boss
who dares you to hit him,


She has all these opinions that are based on what she thinks she's

thinking,

I've been watching you: through a spyglass from a patio across

the canyon that sees your outline and the tag of the towel through

the Akron drapes that are yellow with sun and spade,
All the forks that milk can buy,
He loves to dance, can't dance, loves to chat, he's dead,
If we try hard, we can see a convoy of trucks snake through the shrubs of Rose Canyon,

LAPD is recruiting in San Diego because we don't leave witnesses,
Remember when I regaled you with a discourse on getting even with
the chef who memorized The Anarchist Cookbook?,
It's my birthday in spite of the clime, I'm glad you're using

towels, I wish for abundance in trucks and the next 24 hours,
On days when all the windows and lenses fog,
Think what she will,
He's thinking of meaning and meaning it this time,

Patio decks defy nature and jut from the hillsides as though
the houses themselves want to sail forth and go to some place
where the evidence of sight wasn't taxable and indexed by class,


I've been watching all of you from the other side of the drapes,
one left shoe lies in the center of the free way while the engines
of leisure race and vanish into the irony of perspective,
the point that's never made 'though it's promises taxes our eyes

and wastes our time and makes the purchase of guns desirable and wholesome.

lest i

i left the gun on the counter
lest i shoot off my mouth

kept the cellphone off
in case i call myself names

yes, that was me,
looking over the alley fence

killroy style,

seeing a parade pass by
between 2 brick walls
obstructed with banged, leaky dumpsters,

so many folks waving flags,
shaking hands,

my fingertips are numb
from squeezing the splinters
from the guitar callouses
i built up practicing
"michael row the boat ashore",

the confetti and empty soda cups
obscure the cracks in the sidewalk,

my hands are folded
lest i run this boat aground.

Swans in the park lake

He was in the front seat
Of every car he took to
The other side of the city
Where there were swans
In the park lake, graceful as
Show horses bowing to a crowd .


Half of what you buy
Is who you buy it from.
There you are
With a bag of coffee grounds
In the back seat of the
Car you took back to suburbs
Crowded with the unpaid bills
The city couldn’t set on fire.


There were school girls whistling
Past the graveyard , skirts askew
In uptakes of wind.
Men with shovels loved their work
Because it was deep and grounded.


At dusk, the lake water darkens
And there is only a large, black surface.
The world thinks it is we are out here

In a boat playing harmonicas and guitars
To odd felines and bovines themselves playing
Along the ashen corona that rings the stars.

these trees cannot

these trees cannot
and will not give themselves

to my whims as they
wind around the roots

of our concerns
as shovels dig the earth,

striking bedrock
and giving us sparks

instead of oil or gold.

mineral rights are
no right of way

when no one
sees the path

from the attic window.

these trees would rather burn
with each other , in the forests

where they grew
rather than be uprooted,

split , planed and hammered
into the shapes of furniture and

old toys that will burn
in homes

when sparks hit the shingle roofs
and dry summer limbs.

you give all your money
as you ask for water

and we squeeze stones
that were buried in what little

mud remained along the
side of the road

that's clogged with
cars full of families

saying prayers under
an orange, smoky corona.

no one can see
where it was they lived,

there are no birds
in the sky.