Voices, all inside;
division, all inside;
conflict, war, struggle, impatience —
all inside. Nothing to see
here.

Admit it, man;
you’re not fighting
anything except
the lies you tell
to keep yourself 
from seeing how you really are.
Your whole belief
of the sounds of your enemies
has never been anything
but the sound
of your own garden growing —

roots breaking stones,
leaves pushing into the light.

Stay still and you can hear it all
Now it won’t sound like you’re not whole
if you’re quiet enough —

yet, who, in fact,
are you talking to now?
Can’t you ever shut up long enough
to tend what you’ve grown?

Woke up
neck deep
in something
that might be chocolate pudding,
might be…
the other thing
that looks like
chocolate pudding.

My senses of smell and taste? 
Somehow, gone.

Sittting in front of me
on the surface of the sea of brown,
a spoon.
A sign affixed to it: 

“Eat, then Dig…or Die.” 

You’re thinking,
ooh, a metaphor —
dear reader, you could not be

more wrong.

Took me hours.
No matter what it was,
I was sick by the time
I was free.
I’m still covered in it
but I had to tell you about this —

it’s what I do:
follow the signs
no matter how confused
I become or
how disabled the process makes me,

then put it all on paper
and say, “See
how clever I am and how hard
I have it and isn’t it all such
a mystery?  A lesser man
would have drowned.”

What I wouldn’t give
for a house without spoons,
for one good night’s sleep.
What I wouldn’t give
for the wisdom
to figure out
the difference
between shit and pudding
without plunging in
face first.  What I wouldn’t give
for you to love me
and not my foul
awakenings.

Dave Penny 
said: I only walk
in Providence at night.

That’s when the city
looks its best,
dressed in love-crafty haze,

red eyes blinking in pairs
on the stacks of
the Narragansett Electric plant,

sign of the ghost fires still burning
in the pile of brick, signaling
how much damage there still is in the air.

I walk everywhere I can
in Providence, but only at night,
just to pay tribute to it,

to honor the dim power
cradled in this crook
of the upper Bay

where what we withhold all day
comes out
to define us.

How refined so many are by day, 
striding these cobblestones
in good artist’s clothes, admiring

the East Side brick,
avoiding the South Side, 
slumming in Olneyville,

dipping their well-shod toes
into the Armory district, feeding
their faces on Federal Hill.

They remind themselves of this at night,
overstate the light, recall that 
“Providence” is a name once given

to the source of good fortune,
cling to that.  But I walk the city
at night not to fear but to bathe in the hangover

of the once-rough port, the vanishing villainy 
of the Mob, the elder deities
once conjured here; to imagine

their red eyes blinking at me
at night in Providence, city
of disguises, city that was once

and always will be
my only comfortable
home.  Some of us, after all,

do our best work
in the dark
when we can almost touch 

what we refuse to acknowledge
by day — when we can at last find
others who know who we are

simply because
we all feel at home
in this rough, honest night.

A mouth,
twisted to a pinhole.

Two eyes,
folded into stingy purses.

Ears
apparently unchanged,

but you can tell
they’re closed within.

Hands
rolled up and clubby.

Can’t you see what’s next?
Hear that thumping, see those feet

seeking a jumping-off place?
Get ready for fight

or flight.  To defend
or chase.  To return

to the savanna
we all recall when necessary.

The bees dying, the trees
dying, the tundra melting, the oceans
filling, skies falling and no one’s yet saying

war,
war,
war.

Our pockets broken open, our children
ignorant by others’ choice, our homes
emptying, we sing of nothing and especially not 

war,
war,
war,

for they’ve made up a war to hide that war. 

Shown the threat of it, we cut our hearts free; run up 
suicide charges; serf medieval; dance
tremendous; devil our care in the teeth of 

war,
war,
war.

And all the time we miss the truth,
and the sleight of hand concealing it:  all the time
they’ve been pursuing against us the real

war, 
war,
war.

I long ago committed myself
to this commerce,
selling off tales
of my blue rages,
my gentle red tenderness,
my sightings and songs.

Now I’m a damn rich man.
How did that happen?

I own up to a contempt
for my customers
that shames me.
I’m weary
as any hellion can ever be
of his own mischief.

But I won’t give up a cent,
ever.

A spokesman for the department
has said that a suspect is in custody.

Sources close to the investigation
refuse to speculate on motive.

Evidence is still being collected
and witnesses are still being interviewed.

As the investigation continues
it is expected that more charges will be added.

While the identity of the suspect is known to the press
it has been requested that it not be revealed.

All that is publicly acknowledged 
is that the suspect is a black male in his twenties.

The department will not rule out the possibility
that other suspects are still being sought.

Other suspects may include
more black males in their twenties.

It is also possible that one or more juveniles
are among those being sought.

The department will only confirm
that the search effort will continue.

The department will only confirm
that the search parameters are being widened.

The department stresses that all suspects
are to be considered innocent until they are proven guilty.

The department wishes to thank the public
for their help in the continuing investigation.

The department notes
that this message will repeat.

Art

is not decoration
entertainment
cause for rally

should ruffle feathers —
never smooth the bird at rest
but rile the bird into flight

is not harmless
should never be harmless
should pinch
should itch

the world’s getting warmer —
want to know how? see this photo
of the effect of pebble thrown
into water —
the rich are getting richer —
want to know how?  see the
ill-stretched canvas, the thin
paint, see where the cloth shines through —
see how we make do
and what of how our faces rise and fall
in the company of the beloved ones? want to know
how we are then?

So what?  Those are side
issues for

Art

that is never decoration
dressing on wound or 
balm on reddened skin
oil of cloves or
pepper in the nose —

Art

doing something that cannot be described
any other way except as
art
refuses to bend
rigid as firehose on blaze —
the perfect fluid
water
turned to steel 
contained barely
if at all
if released can fly about
striking everything
in long arcs

and only after do we
soaked through
say

those curves
divorced of the impact
pure and
essential
ah
the throat aches for another word
that does not exist
so
we will have to make it up