Red comes first, heat
among the rods and cones.
Then black, to hide
the humanity of the Other.
Yellow’s the final hue,
the cry of the flash as it
comes home.  We’ve got
red stripes, black ops,
yellow ribbons —
why does it feel like
we’re out of order?

Blue, blue water,
drenching fire; white, the
blank peace after.  Much
of the flag remaining
unused.  What do we see
when it waves?  We’re
the big bull.  Movement
and charge. 

I sit with my hand on my eyes.
Press hard on the sockets, bring up
red, call up black;
no yellow, no blue, no white.
Not now.  Only
the blind palette of hatred.
Only the colors of not feeling
the result.  It’s
exactly enough, like
a damned orgasm.

Sometimes I plods. Sometimes I stops.
I’m a piece of gods. I’m walking. I’m drops.

I lose a little ground again.
Fall, impounded, anywhen.

See the bloods? Mine, I thinks.
A stone that floats until I sinks.

I’m not that mad, just split kaboodle
without a kit.  My bad; I’m doodle

on a napkin all greases and stain.
It’s where I wrap a little brain.

Sharp, isn’t it?  I scissor though
and maybe shed a scrap down low.

Bursty me, shell of once upon.
I’m never dim enough to not be on.

Sometimes I plods and then I stops.
Enough this train of sticky plops;

let me be, you big reply.
I’ll smile and weave a bit of die.

Want to become an animal
but don’t want to spend a lot of money

Want to armor my back and thighs
like a dragon might be so armored
but do it on a budget
and not permanently

Want to sing in the morning
and charm somebody’s pants right off
like some warbler or finch (I can’t name birds
on sight but I like the sound of those names)
but I can’t afford the singing lessons
and I’m not made for flight

Instead of being a man
who has to take everything so seriously
ravenous yet considerate of all consequences
to the seventh generation
careful of feelings today

Want instead to be an animal
but gently, as if
animal were a costume
to be put on and off
Release my familiar
to the end of its leash
and no farther

Being a man is so antique

anything worth doing can be set on fire

there are entire scenic drives that might be improved / with a match

that looks like a bridge / burn it
it might be a sand castle / burn it / how? / use plenty of fuel
it might be fireproof / burn it / mock it until it kindles
it might be invincible / flatter it / see it burn from within

say, is that narrative / or lyric /  surreal / photoreal / protest / pratfall / love?

if it will burn / it is all of those / and it will burn
see the edges already curling?

for the burn / you should swallow a candle
for the burn / you may thread sparklers in your eyebrows

for the burn / fall into the firepit as the licking heat strains for you
why make it so hard to be consumed?

burn it and yourself
ash is a truth / all things end

immortality is relative to the height of the fire / to the strength of the fire / to the sturdiness of the fuel

1.
Rocked back on my heels
by the impact
of a dark wet morning
full of challenging songs
and knotted thoughts:

do I remember
how to use the word
“contentment”
in a sentence?

The only thing I’m sure of
is that it has nothing in common with
“swagger.”  Swagger’s
how you get by
when you aren’t sure,

and I’m sure.

2.
During World War II,
there was a fad among US Army junior officers
for the carrying of swagger sticks:
short batons tucked under the arm
as a symbol of power and command.  Lieutenants
and captains competed with them;
they were elaborate, carved from ebony,
chased in gold and silver…

A general saw this trend
and issued the following order:

“Regarding the use of swagger sticks:
if you need one,
carry one.”

They disappeared overnight.

3.
I step into the rain
with a bowed head
and a slow walk.
My knee’s offering
a forecast for the day:
you’re not going to get
where you’re going
as fast as you want,
but you’ll get there.

How the rain always falls
is straight down.  Falls
from on high and ends up
soaking away into the ground,

where it will do its best work.

I don’t need to swagger
and curve my steps
to the swaying of my ego.

Swagger’s for the uncertain.
I’m

not.

What do you say
to the arm you lost
when it comes crawling back?

Go on, look behind you.  It’s sneaking
up on you, one finger length at a time.

Do you sniff back shamed tears
while looking into your former palm? 
Do you ask why it took so long for the arm
to return?  Do you not inquire
too closely, and simply embrace it
with its former partner and your replacement
machine? 

You’d better start thinking of your answers:
a real man knows how to bluff his past
when it comes back demanding its place
in his world.  You know better than to say,
“I got used to living without you
and got myself a better hold on things
without you.”  You know better
than to brazen it out with the prosthetic
hanging on your shoulder. 
You ought to know better than to break it
like that, after it’s come so far
seeking a home.  Show it a little love:

at the least,
cry a little into its open hand
and pretend you miss it.

His memory is all in the nose.

Frankincense and bitter herbs
in a censer. 

Fumblings
in the rectory.

Passing the church,
lifts off the gas
for a second.  Then
guns it, foot down
almost through the floor.
Rolls up the window.

He won’t hold his nose
to genuflect. 
Still stinks here;
reeks of blood,
of
copper and iron
like a mine, a tunnel,
a cave-in.

enrollment in this school
is involuntary

hours: after sunset
to before trash picking dawn

test question:
always answer no first then yes

graduation: tell me what’s open
this late

which car windows
yield

which back doors swing in
silently

which crawl spaces are accessible
without tearing latticework

a sad education
sleeping safe will not teach you

but you’ll know
this city

This late snowfall
an afterthought,
though the calendar
still insists otherwise.
Inside me now a refusal
to clear the walk
knowing the temperature
will rise tomorrow.
Is this hope?  Been
so long, I’m uncertain.
It may be instead
surrender, white flag
waved in the white face
of more on top of so much.
Story of my life,
lately, this unwillingness
to negotiate with
relentless
and impersonal events;
I don’t want anything
to happen —
at least, nothing
this cold.

whose graves we choose
to fantasize
the tarantelle upon

is less relevant
than knowing we all
have the deep longing
to dance there

polarity’s
the public target
of disgust
but honestly?
we all love to sin
that light fantastic
we can’t seem to sit still
red, blue
left, right

love that happy dance

how soft the ground
and yielding
how haughty our heels

how good it feels
to be swinging
above them
and they can’t do a thing
about it

the beautiful American word
revenge
is a toe dance of righteousness

everyone’s tapping
some on top
some waiting their turn

but every bastard one of us
wants to dance that dance