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

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.