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

Bigfoot exists
to seek justice
everywhere

Unicorms and
chupacabras thirst
for justice

Nessie and Champ
are holding their breath
until justice is done

Ghosts
hold out for justice
before departing

Vampires swear
they’ll seize injustice by the throat
and lay it low

It’s justice
that’s the cryptid
mythological beast

The imaginary world
is with us — solidarity!
It’s justice that’s hiding from us

so much so that Bigfoot
is thinking of coming out of the woods
to prove to all that searching and faith pay off

1.
I read the cards myself, you know,
but not often these days, and no longer
for anyone else.  I have to be
“in the mood,” and it seems
I’m only in that mood these days
when I am utterly alone.

2.
You want to know, are they
parlor trick or font of wisdom?
Fool, who says one thing can’t be both?
If you hold them one way
they shine, another way they blind.
Put it this way: the map
is not the territory
but now and then
the map is where
you have to make camp.

3.
I was taught to read the cards
by a woman who could not read the cards.
It took me one spread to learn this.
Staring into the pattern I felt it:
a mansion rising on the table before me
and my best possibility dwelling within.
My hand itched for the door to that life
even as my mentor droned on about
paths not taken, choices to be made,
a trip over water I should not take.

4.
It wasn’t long before
I was sitting in bars cold reading for strangers
in exchange for drinks;
sitting in living rooms cold reading for strangers
in exchange for cash;
sitting in kitchens hot reading for a stranger,
hoping for sex.

Sitting in bedrooms reading for myself,
imagining myself as a stranger.

5.
If you think,
they fail you.  The point
is to go with the story
no matter where it goes.
That’s why I’m here, I guess.

6.
Nowadays it’s more often
penny-ante poker in a basement.
I surely miss
the Hermit, the Star,
and the Sun.  But when 
the Jack Of Hearts
shows up in my hand,
I remember how good 
he used to look
when he called himself
the Knight Of Cups.
I remember how good
that used to feel.

7.
Yes, I’ve been over water
a few times in my life.
Once upon a time in Venice
I almost bought a new deck
just for old times’s sake,
but the woman in the shop
muttered something
and shook her head
when I pointed
and I walked out before
anything odd could happen,
but I lived happily ever after anyway,
I guess.

8.
They tell you
your first deck
should be a gift.
Mine was.  I still have it.
All the others
were my own choices
and they’re all gone.

9.
I should end, I suppose,
with predictions. So:
two countries will go to war
and one will win. Two lovers
will meet, part, spend their days
recasting what happened
until in retrospect they can say
the signs were clear. An old man
will die, and so will a young one,
and a child and a dog and a tree.
Someone’s going to act a Fool
while being utterly certain and alone
on a path they devote themselves to walking,
and a deck of ancient cards will be collected up
and rewrapped in silk
while congratulations and mystic chatter
echo all around. 

It is a form of peace
to become comfortable
with how lost you are
and will always be,

to know how ignorant
you will always be
of so many subjects,
even of the one 

that touched you most;
it is wisdom
to accept the lack of wisdom
you bring to most events.

Whether you burn
in hell or lounge in heaven
when you are deceased,
you will at least have one cell

committed to a certainty
of mystery.  You can be
secure wherever you go
knowing you’ll never reach the end

of what you might have learned
with a little more energy,
a little more focus, a little less
arrogance.  When you lie down

for the last time, you can be sure
there was something you missed.
It’s a legacy you’ll leave behind.
You will be remembered for it,

it will be discussed at your funeral
with lots of headshaking and wrung hands.
“Pity,” they’ll say.  “He had potential.
If only he’d mastered that one thing.”

No matter the bitter,
I’ll not deny the sweet

that polishes the bitter
to a high, taut sheen

so that when I take it in
(as I am inclined to do)

I still may see reflected in it
the sweet which touched it once

and left its subtle tinge
upon the sting of bitter.

No matter the bitter
and its effect upon my face

and core, I will never deny
that sweet and bitter fall equally well

upon my tongue; though sweet
may not be common, though bitter

somehow fills me more, sweet is present
somewhere and even as I twist

my cheeks and pout my lips,
even as I cough my praise

of bitter and its bracing charm,
sweet holds its firm and distant sway

if only because it sets me free
from too much bitter to think

and dream of sweet as
a possibly different way to be.

Blue bottled,
bushy-tailed,
windburnt
and ready.
Sleeked by
darkness into
menace on track.
Removed,
relegated,
remonstrated
and shunned but
the party’s not the same
without me lurking,
is it? So keep
some portion of an eye out,
whisper of my absences
and sudden arrivals —
God, it feels good
to be a god. To be
Mars or maybe
Loki or maybe one
unknown yet, blue-
tailed, bushyfaced,
glimmering clean
and sharp enough to cut
silk.  Here comes someone
jumping toward you from shadow
to murk to ink —
is it still me
or am I nearby
laughing in the light
at what you have created
from my being forbidden
and cast into the night?