Originally posted 1/19/2013.

I will soon read Borges again.
When I do I will wear dark clothes and glasses,
eat pork on rough bread,
smoke an unending series
of bowls of cheap tobacco from a cheap pipe.

I will soon re-read Joyce 
but only in the spring and only upon
completion of the works of Borges.  
I shall wear a cloak, if I can locate
a store that sells cloaks.  A cloak and

a whiskeyflask cane.  A cloak and
thick soled shoes and a whiskeyflask
cane.  Yes.  I will resume reading
Borges, then Joyce.  And after that,
Djuna Barnes; then, Wallace Stevens.

For Barnes and Stevens I will change
to a suit of seersucker, and I will not iron it
ever, even the shirt, even the hems; I will feed
on rumcakes and seedcakes and cupcakes
in public cafes, with my books tucked under my chair.

I will be done with reading
Borges and Joyce and Barnes and Stevens
soon enough. Then I will buy a home
and lie around naked and not read anything
I don’t want to read.  

All those trappings I affected!
I must have looked ridiculous. What the hell
was all that about? I will cleanse by dressing in sweats 
and reading John Grisham in French 
while downing supermarket croissants till I pop.

I won’t care who sees
my wide ass in the library
when I am checking out books on getting ahead in real estate,
and books on Stephen King and Patricia Cornwell:
not their works, mind you;

books about their clothing and diet.  
Clothes, it is said,
make the man,
you are what you eat, and maybe
you are what you read.  

Well, I don’t want to be anything anymore.
Want to be dumb, anonymous, devoid
of a reading list or its worsening symptoms. 
Just gimme a burger, a roll in the hay, a dead sleep
on a dirty mattress. An easy way to vanish.

Originally posted 5/27/2012.

Three look over the side of their
soon to be foundered boat,
staring out at the storm, down at the sea:

what’s coming up
from the dark water —
corpse, crab, blue pearl?

The teacher says,  
I spy only the blue pearl,
lustrous mystery rising. 

The practical one
seizes on how the crab, once seized,
seizes back — seizes on deniable pain.

The undertaker says,
my concern is the corpse.
Wash it clean. Swathe it. Sink it.

Which is it?
Maybe there’s nothing
down there 

threatening or promising anything,
just memory
playing with shadow,

trying to claim its place
before the storm
begins to work at drowning.

Originally posted 8/28/2013.

The men of that country 
must be sick
for how else can one explain
comb-overs, wars,
long nosed cars, 
long reach guns, 
filibusters,
a weaponized God, hangings,
unfortunate colognes, blood feasts,
the casual seizing
of women,
of children,
of other men,
the willed ignorance 
of lack of consent, 
the leveraged buyouts,
the wolf pelts,
the blessing of
radioactive oceans,
the balls of old oil
in the bellies of seals,
the blank-eyed drooling
in rooms full of
vintage guitars
and game balls,
the blackout drunks,
and the hard-engine bikes,
except as symptoms? This is 
a country of sick men
burning their surroundings
whenever they open their mouths.
There are women there
about whom little has been written
by the sick men. It’s likely
they have stories to tell
that could clean that fouled air.
If they did,
that would be
a different country.

Originally posted 2/19/2010.

There are believed to be no tigers
in Worcester at the moment. 
Our lone animal park 
holds cougars and polar bears. 
If anyone here owns a surreptitious tiger,
they’ve been keeping it well-concealed, 
but this evening
I swear I saw a tiger
in the shadows by the back fence.

It’s been said that if a tiger
once tastes human flesh,
it will remain a maneater forever. 
This one clearly saw me,
but made no move in my direction.

It may have already eaten. 
It may not have known how sweet I am.
Perhaps that maneater label is just a legend.  
Perhaps the dream tiger, real or unreal, 
tried a man and found it wanting,
was seeking goat or sheep
or some game creature instead.

The tiger (and I know, I know,  it was unreal
but I could not take my eyes from it)
stopped by the oak tree.
It looked up  — perhaps at unfamiliar bark,
or a scent it had not had to identify before. 

Perhaps it was listening for voices it knew.
I called it, using a name I haven’t spoken in years.
It turned and tensed, fangs and stripes
bared but transparent, 

and suddenly I saw through its body, 
saw it as menacing as I had not before,
as if there was an overlay of pain rippling there
I had not noticed, as if I was seeing it
through a terror veil, and I longed
for it to rush me — I called to it:

mystery cat,
tiger in the mind,
be more real
than I can conjure.

Come and tear me up, 
leave my true blood on the ground.

I am tired of my fear of ghosts,
wish to fight something solid,
want to die by the act
something real.

Originally posted 5/14/2008.

I dreamed of winning Powerball.
Overnight a heap
of one hundred and seventeen million dollars
stuffed itself into my head
and wedged itself there,
trapped by the nose of an Aston Martin
left running in my ear canal.

I woke up inside the fantasy
of imminent wealth.
I cleared out a room in there
in which to squirrel away 
these cares about how to pay my bills
and how to cook simple dinners.
I can no longer be bothered
with such things.

There are smart folks
who call the lottery
“a tax on the poor.” Bull.
I don’t feel poor 
as much as exiled. When I play
I’m just taking my shot
at winning my way home — 

like now, for instance;  though I’ve only got
five dollars to my name till Friday
that mocking bill is burning a hole
in my ratty pocket
so I am off to buy The Ticket — 
that Aston Martin dream
is a roaring in my head
that won’t quit.

Originally posted 7/22/2007.

do not pretend
you haven’t grown up to be
one of those boys
who sits on the grass
at the highway rest area
counting thongs
and nudging your friends, because

I’m watching you do it.

do not gloss over your snickering
when you are called on it.
do not play that game.

stop with the defensive rationale 
for using the word “bitchslap,” 
for wearing the “mustache ride” T-shirt.

here comes the predictable comeback:
it’s a free country,
you’ve got freedom of expression
all over your smooth little ticked off face
and you’re not afraid to use it. it’s just
talk, you say. you don’t mean it, really, really,
not like that, never hit a woman, just a joke,
fuck you, fuck you, you PC sumbitch, fuck you.

well, I was never expecting much to come of this
so one favor only I ask of you:

stop pretending
you aren’t the kind of guy who does this.
do not play the whistle past the rape camp
game. do not tell me you never
saw a roofie in a friend’s hand
and said nothing. do not tell me
you wouldn’t do it again.

do not tell me you aren’t the kind of guy
who flips off a confrontation over this shit
and laughs with his buddies all the way to the car
and does it again as soon as you reach
the next place you mingle with the rest of the world.

just tell me you’ll remember this moment
if ever you hold your own son
as he asks you to explain the way things are.

just tell me you understand that
first things last.

tell me something surprising. tell me
it’s gonna end someday.

Originally posted 12/10/2013.

Let me introduce myself: 
cigarette jump pulse back digger,
game pack smoke rider,
riding my warp plane; you can
call me Knife Wheel Gyroscope.
This packing crate, also my home,
cradles my vision
while I’m stretched on
my musical daybed,
on my hard head spin journey,
flash memoried
with past and potential mates,
crystal mythology partners; 
I am a priest of the church
of the hole in the pocket,
an elder of the problematic filth;
to you, of course,
I’m something else: reminder, 
caution, guardian bad faithless stinker,
your nearly forgotten uncle —
yes, I’m something, all right — 
a something 
you wish was elsewhere.

I apologize. Is that better?
I’m the problem, yes indeed.  Is that better?
I’m Knife Wheel Gyroscope
and I approved this message 
of mess and presage.  
Is that better?
Are you better?
Fear and dislike this poor something
if you must.
I’m not moving on.
I’m Knife Wheel Gyroscope
and this packing crate is home 
and home is here, not elsewhere;

if you thought of me, ever,
ever as something other than
“make that something go elsewhere,”
you’d know I belong here as you
belong here, dear pup;

you’d offer me your compassion
if I were enough on your mind to organize
a solution for, that is, if only like you

I had a wallet thicker than a hippo tongue with a hyperthyroid bankroll;

if I were not a me, 
not a dirty him
or trash heap her,
an I with calm eyes;
if I were only not
Knife Wheel Gyroscope
and if this packing crate, also a home,
did not cradle this vision, I’m certain

it would be easier being you right now.