A little obvious, but I’m working toward something else — this is just a first step.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1. on the radio

hit me baby one more time

we are willing it
willing to hear it
and claim it means something else

hit me

baby
me, she says
powder me wrong
glue me back together
delicately under the spell
of apology

no go

me baby

one of the many who owned
the record just slipped away

baby one

more and more
we open our hearts
as much as we close our eyes
to how easily this happens
how often do we miss it

one more

time? not likely
how many every
minute
hour
day
fall and no one says a thing
where are the songs they didn’t sing
and what were they hearing when the door
opened for the last time

more time?

not likely: when he moved toward
his place in the books
he was counting on this being the final act

hit me baby one more time

because he knows schoolgirls
are nicest when they’re naughty
and bad girls don’t go to heaven
bad girls just go
and
they’ve got their own
soundtrack

remember how I used to have really long hair? With a ponytail down past my shoulders?

Yeah, that was kinda fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
New piece.

Collusion

I know a lot of people around here
and if I thought they’d believe me
I would tell them the black story of how

you did so little to save me
how you pushed and shoved past me
to get your ass out the door to where

he was waiting to take advantage of the time
and the circumstances to make
sympathy his bitch and where

she stood next to him with her finger
in the corner of her mouth and pretended
to care what was happening right in front of her as

we tangled our way past the cameras
I know are there people out there who would notice
the way we fell down the steps cradling each other as we fought but not

you, oh no, all of you who
stood there watching with your whistles and graveyards
and stared at the impossible blue of the sky while

they let us nearly bleed to death in front of the whole
stinking town and now the newspapers might as well write it up
as an example of how low everyone’s fallen when no one steps in

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And for Cowboy and the rest of the gang:

Cleansing The Undermeats

Uncle Justin
was in trouble: his sister had asked him
to watch the kids and make sure they got lunch but
his famous spinach and artichoke dip
ran out early so he called for back up from
the guy he liked to call “the
corner store.”

As soon as the “groceries” appeared
he delivered a mighty “harrumph” and departed
to his room to relive his favorite daydream
for the thousandth time this week: imagine
being forced to cleanse the undermeats
in a public shower in front of
the Grateful Dead and their legions!

“Harrumph!”

Enough mushrooms
can make even the soapiest junk
beautiful, he thought. He was certain
that Jerry would be proud of him
if he weren’t already dead,
and for real this time.

Even after his sister got home
and found the kids painted with spinach
and chowing Fruit Loops dry while “Europe ’72”
blared in the basement and the endless tour
trucked merrily through the house, Justin
kept the faith: Nothing to do but smile, smile,
smile!

And so, kids, the moral of the story
of Uncle Justin, his fabulous
(and spotless) undermeats, and
the adventure
of the spinach and mushroom afternoon, is this:

the Grateful Dead suck.

— trust me, you just had to be there

1.
the lady hand extended off the couch slightly curled at the fingers and sleeping. it’s drunk flower night. candle plants fly through the sleeper’s nose and she is gardened, rose-willed, remarked on in the literature of the tables and chairs. carpets ground themselves waiting for her.

2.
remains piled in the sink — flies slain during a recent invasion. their ghosts like politics, imagining the swat of magazines aimed at them and missing over and over. the bodies lie still, staid revolutionaries who will not agree to a truce.

the lady hand is the culprit, they whisper. no surrender.

3.
if a man enters here, he is set upon by vaccuums cut loose from their engines, gray winds drawing him in, coating him in all the old they’ve got.

these interior lands are a reservation of the highest order, dead sands, forgotten sacraments, gods unnoticed still imagining they are the drivers of creation.

4.
the lady hand stretched out and sleeping. a branch of forgetting. no argument for relevance. existence its own justification.

what the body burns at its hidden rituals is the solitary business of cells and electricity.

5.
flies open revenant eyes. multiple windows look onto a city of durable goods. the lady hand, the marble of a temple. blunt demands on time, meet the resistance of art and memory.

she has loved once or twice. eats pulp from oranges to recreate the sting of nourishment.

candle plants can exist for years on the fading glow of romantic notions. men cannot fathom their own small place in here.

6.
when the lady hand moves, the audience leaps up, applauding the triumph wrung from the misbegotten play.

if the curtain moves, it’s only to fall. the lady hand holds nothing. everything. the swooning youth, the old rigid honor of the black-tied suitor, the credits read aloud in transparent wings.

this is the medium of the candle plants, the soil of the night.

7.
aztecs, priests of drunk flower night, opened the bodies of their daughters to see if the gods were home.

knock, knock, lady hand. your house is on fire.

your eyes, your stone flavor.

danger is the blessing of the candle plants, the flies sing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ursula LeGuin used to talk of “bung pullers” — pieces that opened new gates. This is one. Meaning? Haven’t got a clue. You tell me.