plan b

i only trust people i recognize
and even then, not all of them.

one more good line

and on the road down by the river
under my own hood and my deplored defamed
gust of wind
i saw briefly and only for a second
your house, very nearly finished,
and i couldn't help but notice
a quiet ray speak through the attic window.

underneath and between the legs
of the table
and by the sink
and under the showerhead
and in between the faucet and the tub
and faced with so pretty a face
spread so pretty

two men, drunk,
quickly waltz with brilliant females
and buy rounds and rounds and
round and round the ceiling goes
as backpacks fly and fists
begin to form.
the men back off and stumble through
the black towards home.

the lady of the day
came up from rome
her hair was blue and orange,
and she asked me for a poem.
i said "sure, to hell with them,
we'd had a few even then.

"what's one more good line
swept off by southern wind?"

i don't care care care
about the shot shot shot
i won't take it down.
i will not.

pour the cup down
set it away when you're done
chase me down (bis)

so when it's faded
when the lights are on in back
when we've done it all
i'll crumple my shirt on the ground

it'll never be easy
waiting

i quit

i quit.
sorry.
i did.

how come?

quanta, pronto.
helix, jack, get the helix.
set it by the flask.
i didn't want you under the table,
get the bunsen.

the counter's too black,
towel.
scribble under the painted
men who wonder what
and when the asteroid hit the earth
would cells divide
or would jesus hurt?

pash set fire

in for the deposition.
the cart went awry,
streamers up in the air,
red, faintly blue,
the smell of ugly leather
and plastic steering wheels.

one hundred fifty one
and spatial directions needed,
the flick of a lighter
and up she goes,
nights faded.

we need the truth son,
was it you whose busted nose
filled the earth with blood
until your bile rose?

just let me find them,
one by one,
i'll torch their golfcarts
till i feel i'm done.

you'll like this little number

one two three four
don't forget the one where
i walk down the sidewalk and
drunk
fight
right arm cut off
writing
jars of olives on my chest
and a heart on a post-it
and then taking my
left-hand snubnosed
and pressing it to my head.

who could be

so spit and spin and turn around
upside underneath
and feint the heavyweight's delight
and spin wheels in Minnesota.

dark came fast
and i was under sedatives
on green grass while
one touched my hat,
one touched my shoe
one touched my hand,
one left me, blue.

lurk and prey
on babies' hides
cast your ballot
and give em hell
under simple metaphors
of dire crystals.

put some stuff on the mirror
make it golden
i gave up all the lights
and barely even have the fog
the combine roared that evening.

i quietly spat over the rail
and wondered what it would be like
if i fell off with my little friend
into the river and under the bend.

wait! did he...?

consult the list.
i can run.
a canteloupe half.
a pound of chocolate
and fifteen flowers.
an agonized and ragged sigh
against a pillow.

what's the count?
let's find out.

the building of a school in brooklyn
fifteen dodgers playing ball,
he struck them out. one and all.

-brown eyes?
-no.
-how bout green?
-blue's the only one for me.

or when it was hot and i sat outside
and watched the fountain grow.

or when it was cold and i ran
and fell into drifting snow.

or when it was over and i sat to the wind
fist to my hand and chest to my chin?

never know,
it's been supposed...
say, where exactly
does this furniture go?

brutal, brutal

brutal brutal afterthought
and by the way
i forgot
i don't have any teacups for my son today
i've left them out with the cakes
to rot.

twenty four children clog the home
dishes, washrags,
and me
alone to tend them.

knots and boats and clams and shoes
and turds left by the mice
that ate the cheese during the night
they shift their skulls to fit through cracks.

time to relax
we all know what that means
sit back and feel the sun on your head
and the breeze through your pants
and think about falling down under the
teakettle-shaped mushroom cloud that
just went down
on twenty four white chessmen.

a bad case of the nevers.

queries and queers and
maybe four mour beers
and that kiss on the cheek
will turn to kisses
and will burn me under the blue.

fogged and curled on the chair
with blue hens and daffodils
surrounding us and the clap
of the happy dance wafting
from the other room.

how?
well now to move
and sway.
back and forth in time
as the brass band plays
and the jawless man trots
up to ask.
you say yes,
i tip my glass.

the eve goes on
and out the window
the silver flute flies,
dreary, lonely, spacious skies.

the bell is cracked,
the flute knocks my skull
and i collapse.

maybe tomorrow we'll catch that flick.

waiting

for some the love is simple joy
that swings under a still tree.
for others, surprise ensnares the foot
and grabs them about the knees.

for me and you, if we'd pretend
no breeze or gale would stir the field,
i'd swing all day beneath the branches
'till seed to earth, by root, was sealed.