two poems

I know nothing to be honest.
To be honest w/ my child, who isn't
mine but for the five hours they,
the agency, the state, authorize
me to be someone for the child.
Someone, this that I embrace
as much as three pages daily,
my bright lights casted
in the background, uncluttered
the sound of cars smashing
into each other, across the
stubbled polymer surfaces.
Hollow most children's objects
are, so that they can fill.
Everyday filling these voids
that most of us have
difficulty acknowledging.
He stands there, not wanting,
nor tired, nor fat as I,
filling the objects that
make up his day
his new world.

---

Christian teaches me rather than
vice versa. I write of him
since he cannot of me.
I reach out, up, for things,
like cranes do.
He brings them together,
throws them apart, like a
dozer. We're a team, he and I,
in the chaos where
we meet thrice a week, we
make things happen.
His mind is furiously quick.
I just get furious quickly.

:0

awaken in the noonday never far from a
body of water, or concrete, filled in
permanently if by chance, a person,
especially a child, drowns.
Arms outstretched above my dream head
not for the lack of space here, w/
her all curled, her hair tightens
up by the noonday sun,
cactus twitches unnoticeably from time
to time. Here I open my eyes and
arch my body and rest myself
upon my arms, stiff from holding
back the shared wall of the house,
yawp, a statement to the towering,
sun, which like a deity, cares
none -- still burning and when it
expires, I too won't care for it,
having long expired myself, but
not today, today I wake
and am careful not to disturb
the bundled layers of
blankets that nest
my dear beb.

Never hailed as a lover, ah but to start it once again with the scent of Berryman on his nose, ever oily,
that much he knew of great literature was hard to wash off. It was usually important for him to feel like
he wrote something of interest after a day's work, when he would slow to a rolling stop on
Jackson. Often there was a car in the spot in front of the house due to the hot weather and the public pool
that sat across the street. But, yes, set at seventy degrees, he sat and typed up something amusing now and
again. When asked what he wrote about, a question he thought shouldn't be asked of poets, he responded
with answers he had heard other poets use and proved somewhat effective in getting people to "ah" and nod
and shut up. The city, mostly, the city, the sex, what little there was, of both, in landmass and population
compared to greater cities and greater sex never far off. Of love, or luv, whichever seems more real.
Whichever seems less artificial. Past and present company and companies.


The conversations and the pauses.


The metal ladder he swung off from Amy's, slid, Jackie-style. Made her cry there. That was the first time.
It had brought them closer, he liked to believe. About Christian and the songs they play, "Hear the word of
God, hear the word of God, hear the word of God and obey it." About his crying, which was the second
time. It scared him sometimes to be seen with a crying child. It scared him to have once been that crying
child who was so lucky to get into the school he wanted.

In the middle of class, he looked over.
Three teachers at the
door, with the news.

heiny here and on in front of the type-type machine
outside there, below a story, the jar of death grows thicker
and ever more foul w/ the bodies of flies
crawling over all their scientific parts (Bee, help us out
here, thoraxes, sucrose & egg parts, wings & appendages
out and twitching, five inches deep of cramped death
My father wants to wait until it is full before he empties it
out, it is effective, to say the least.

See, they are attracted by the scent, crawl in, and cannot find their
way out again. Eventually they drown or starve.
Imagine dumping that jar on an extremely beautiful girl!
"She'd probably die."

--

C, all he wants is Thomas, he grabs one of the four books
in the library, puts on his Tide racing cap, settles into a plastic
yellow chair and pretends to read.
I'm pretty good at building the tracks for him
you have to make sure that the entire thing is a system of
intricate (but most importantly, fun) loops
perhaps a turning bridge, a street lamp
lines that converge on each other but must provide an exit
so that two trains won't collide

four poems

1

Two hours there at 913 Filbert w/ Mr Allen, who gave me all but two
damn minutes. They teach you in driving school never to stop in front
of a hydrant. No stopping, no parking, no nothing,
in front of a hydrant.
I clutched my doctored photos of the 100 block of 11th st.
shocked that my Olympia doesn't have a number one key,
looked down in hesitation at my leather portfolio (two bucks)
as the tape rolled. He stapled papers, I now have 23 days
again, the PPA, you win. Have at it. I took off work for this.
Up another hour past Bryan's farm, w/ the corn stalks really looking
well, to DVCC to meet Donna, for an orange dum dum, to correct my errors.

I've no grand scheme here, nor beautiful thoughts
the gas struggles up the hills, to the left giant walls
   of wildflowers (she told me they look clearly man-made
              the same white car out by the no passing zone
              for sale. Who will buy it, I wonder, on my next trip up?
The XX crossing where I always rev the engine
the only exciting part of the drive.

Amy, now I can't get the text out of my damn head, forever
thinking of you whenever I write, even just thinking of writing
which I do much more often. And not even about you in particular,
just that I have to when I write a poem, that you will always
linger there in the back of my head, nodding over my shoulders
w/ your sleeves in your palms, smoking a cigarette, clutching--

I've not seen Tim in a long while and I do not worry.
The man creates and the man delights in doing so.



2

Found myself in some dwelling w/ the fur of a lamb
found myself, at least, somewhere warm.
Softening glare out here ,  ouch, find yrself
by the eyeglass lab and read the hrs that aren't yr own
and I'll never get here on time, never on time.

This happened to us naturally.
We pool together in our fields and trains and pools

writing bullshit for the most part, not ever to confess one's
drunkenness, never to shake firmly the hand of a beautiful
girl w/ short hair. I don't LIKE these new people
at all, let us GO. My old people are steady but slow.
I drip here and there wanting more blank spaces to fill in,
delights me neverendingly to fill something.
To type fast
to write greatly, even w/ errors, w/ faults
and never receiving praise but who cares
no wine no flowers, right? no glory in the pot
no hillside home to roll, and that means fat ones, pal.

Ah, but to be great and alone w/ that greatness
take a long piss in Carpenter's wood one night, over and over,
the same night. Enough to drown branches and dead trees and the crick
we dammed up. Me and some friends. I have some and that is pretty

fucking good.
lifting each other's fur.
brushing each other, baa, baa, baaaaaaaaaaaaa.
  To use few words greatly
to be natural
to sum me up, this poem, this qt. I drink from
is to be pretty damn great, which is to say; baaaaaa.



3

Count me OUT of it. Te Ching and the spirit of the valley
(not delaware) never dies, delaware? where tien and his goon
live? That ugly and cut
teeth & glasses and long, pointy loafers w/ some money
take yr money,
never again be on Race st. after closing time,
never again sing kokomo too loud as to drown out the harmonies
asking me what I'm doing
people always ask me what I'm doing, what is it w/ this thing I do?
I hear you don't have to pay sales tax over there, you fucking philistine.
I never knew what happened to Samson at the end.
Was Delilah a whore or wasn't she?
Are we ourselves leading up to some horridly regurgitated tale
over centuries so much so to be recognized simply by 'American'
that makes people think of persons such as you. W/ your shit outfit.
Samaritans & Philistines, what awful fates regardless.

Felicity just for the sake of having used it once in a poem of mine.
Done. Sundry, as well. Nicky, yr boots are in the trunk. Get them.
Sean, what are we here for again? Give me one of those easy answers
you always have. I respect anyone who makes it look EASY
but only with inherently difficult tasks.
I'll be gone from all this soon enough and what will the children
(no, wait!! forget them, the adults)
what will they think of us,
"what did he do?
this American?"


                         he lived and he wrote sparsely
               thought of 1-5 different women at a time
                went to drink and stayed in to eat
                     drove much more than anything else
                     and was great at it
                     worth study.



4

This kind of output is dangerous, said the technician.
4500 amps or some-sort, said the writer, posing as a technician.
A female doctor inspects his calves w/ gloves, it felt like
meat wrapped around bricks, almost, chuckling, as the writer w/ his
quart of Heineken, routinely checked his facebook in-between stanzas.

Where are the good ones now, with the language so fresh and easily
identifiable. The city poems, the city, remember? The rock that gives
exhausting death yet always treating it lightly,
that's me for the most part
father found three bicycles today
all different sizes and colors
one of them was good enough for me
I was big enough for it
The other, my mother
and the last one, my father.

I cough out a bubble of bacteria
thinking that I shouldn't use my poems as a way
to communicate to her, and that they shouldn't be used by her
as a way to be communicated to, her own magic mirror
into my sordid life. FACTS left me an envelope for $20, somehow
without my knowledge. Well-played, and the children are especially
naughty. The tallest one hits the ball without any issue
I don't really have to teach her too much at all and
like most women, never really know if they're enjoying it or not.
I'm sure as hell enjoying it, wiping down the blades
alone, in the large cafeteria room, exhausted.

this is a thankless poem.

This morning of the small sun, which I hadn't seen,
sick and woven myself into a desperate cocoon,
crying for more water and the life-saving pill.

Tell me, where I can find you between the distance, thick
trees leading out to the river where some had died,
most dead had swam, in all their forms,
diminutive & awash

Lone woman gets up and walks off, where
sad girl w/ my capicola, Korean, her mother too, wary of flies
her singing perhaps some song
as she drizzles oil,
seasons it for me,
I prefer Winter,
a surge of short day

Man sketching J Lippincott company building?
house w/ the red shutters
house w/ the blk shutters,
forever alone housing
executives

what did Amy see off the penthouse?
A hawk's nest in the museum boardroom.
I wanted to really sit in those chairs.
I wanted someone, for--

the breeze suddenly
a squirrel writing his own
chubby and unafraid.

last confession to her, so many I lost count

it was a set of excuses, I ate two tums & pounded my chest

(I dumped the rhythm of the songs, they sounded a wreck

to clear whatever was lodged,

had never been to Dodge, nor got the hell out,

what was truly wrong w/ my insides

I wrote Bee and left a small gift between the folds,

was unsatisfied with how I wrote the header,

tore it out and put it in a new envelope, and found

the gift on the floor later, after I'd sealed the letter
& the Olympia away

sat for hours, then

to get fully a grasp on the predicament that lay ahead

I am to turn the page on another year

revel in my minor works, type to beb,

apply myself, for jubs, to Bee,

thought of Amy and wrote, as she would've wanted

thought of L, staring back at me

through & through

the icon, always ahead due to the curvature of the Earth

knowing there is no going back to this

(I grab myself and shake it all around

What in this July hum that sang no words
terrifies Quinn & bores him dead
hardly holds his own
I wait for a firm answer from nobody.

for chloe

If Philadelphia was an island
I'd put all them punks on it
wouldn't be near the damned thing
there'd be little to miss but a few Injun creeks
where you dip your feet

postcard

Incredible how the most of us are spent, now
(hanging out front of the steps
I shot him there, laid him out on the grass with his arms spread
making what was and forever will be the greatest thing that year put out,
in the hall she brought me fish and other sweets,
that stair, I looked up and just had to climb it

He told me to come to New York but no one ever has my back there --
L is submerged, Bee on a cliff on a camp on a trail
writes to me on the back of Désir by Munch, a lithograph, 1898,
from Maine, Headquarters Rd, Moosehorn NWR, it's called;

"Babysnake,
Camp is miserable.
Can I come home early?
At least I still love dawn in treetops.
I recently visited an old nuclear facility turned meadow.
I got some pretty wild pictures to show you.
The bunkers where the bombs were kept now look like hobbit homes."

Polis is only its people
she took much away
from that sick city
and its ephemeral beauty
leaving me that night to go for one last survey

See you Sunday then
to see off Paul
see off over the black tree,
there w/ the moon behind it,
                                         full,
and the smoky cloud
sees me too.

I see her
and she sees me
in the light of that moon


smoking
and smoking

90

See where we can win, the horses
with spectacular names, which I name my poems,
some much the same,
AC, she calls to me, Amaris, she asks me,
what am I doing, texting? Who, my friends?
Whose house are we going to tonight, she asks, who?

AC, I think of her as I unlock the typewriter keys, a click over her shoulder,
the brief embrace (unlevel) on the stoop so far and so close to the Acme where her man buys coffee,
I see her, L, on the southeast surf, I pull my subscription (this I talked w/ Nicky about)
this windy evening Rudy came and picked up his son who gives me nothing but a hard time, 
and I, continuing ever on, look out and over with the sweat of aluminum on my forehead


I summer myself, it is intimate.
The old family, they are doing 
well, they are beautiful and tall 
children, they are muscle, and 
Greek organizations, they are young,
at times vapid and drunk off the same
drink, they are dark glasses and the young
boy who watched me get mine under a blanket
all those years ago, in the dark only two nights 
in north Jersey, that was the summer
where I begged my mother and father to let me stay, let me
                                                                                         get what was mine
                                                                                         coming to her,
                                                                                         summer    drink      
                                                                                         summer & sex 
summer and the repression of that 
entire block, sitting there, in the memory of . . .
Bee, on the edge of the swing, w/ her hair pulled back,
fresh and bouncing and tan, ever quizzical
slips off the tongue, walking always a few steps 
ahead w/ a crown, embodies summer   summer body

found in notebook

The you-fray-tease river
The swamp rd, middle
I had passed over,
no swamp to the left or right
2288 Second St Pike
all the identifiable numbers on the mailboxes and telephone poles.

you phrase di,
call the u-haul on N. 13th
and pick up the tables for Ellen, who, ecstatic on the phone, goes,
"The children are going to love it!"
I thank all my brothers,
chronos, who invited me out to north Jersey
to Lily Yip's table tennis club

C'est si bone, got the text this afternoon; yeh, I'm ready
to evolve w/ you. Fran is hosting a party for the District, shall we schmooze?
The funds have shot their way through, into my morning, finally,
and beb is at home -- what's to lose?
I'll have a cheap drink, next to the hole on 6th, to you,
dear pal

I've readers, for now, from China & Brazil, tannish gals,
two kooks in Berlin that have less to do
(my phantasy involves the two)
but whatever, I'll see you in November.
Stick it in, December.

no, no, croaked Quyen, as he expected his cheque

now ever more difficult to further his subject

                                                                         god, no!

I inspect all my gauges, 

half, perhaps, a little below

to drive all the damn way up to business-one

gas stations

w/ no prices displayed, some

squares only grey, which I might afford

I try, I try til I get heavy bored

put a Philips screwdriver in my hand

back at 5th & Moore 

alongside formal Chinese without formal educations

I saw one at a bakery on 9th in Chinatown, he didn't recognize me

we kicked a soccer once during lunch break,

he was a giant

but what was there to say? I was in my birthday suit
we trucked tons of cheap cabinets,

the lot of us, 

simple machines

Two poems of mine in Otis Nebula's fifth issue. Callooh Callay!
http://www.otisnebula.com/otisnebula/ON5.html

read Berryman's poem Recovery,

which is all I've done thus far

my agency, coupled w/ another that is damn distant,

past Bryan's Farm and the tomato stakes, old couples on choppers,

is too sluggish w/ my checks. I'm loafing by a thread these days,

I peck my beb a few times and settle back into worry.

the teachers were there at a child's birthday party

I believe they conspire to get me fired, like they did with the last guy

my BSC looks out for me, at the very least, of which I am thankful
I'm the only non-Christian there

I shuffle the Maximus Poems and Love & Fame 

as if an ace of inspiration will tip out

summer, now, 

only smells differently

Polis is eyes (not size)

after I've jerked off all my money into the water run

off the curb for three stacks of blueberries (I em gave to Nicky

she remains impenetrable, an extension of her work,

AC that teeters dangerously on the sill seven or so floors up

Bee came in from Berlin

lays on her stomach more than most creatures

to read, shows me, & slinks off to sleep

she brought me Love & Fame! we buckt,

she powering the plane w/ her thought

got to Maine much alive and missing me

                                     

               Most, now, have gone;

               Mondays for some
               living the printed life
               --I stayed home.

angels

forget about the love dove for an hour and focus on the rain
this day my father returned home after his battle w/ the hospital
and the annoyances that cultures bring back
      his three sputum tests that have life and death in their margins,
this nurse, she is large and hunched over her comp like a blue bear.
I sit above Christian, my child, and think of how unfit for a person
is a garage, to lie in, w/ its machinery and razor dust
When the inspector comes, he shall comment on the strong
herbal odors of the red house, the hard wood, the altar.

Christian is asleep to false loops of rain
Tonight I will dine in the midst of literary greats
of the city

this undying space is mine
hidden attic that contains
a Marlboro bag of pornos which my uncles traded like playing cards.
The sagging door across from the family of birds that nest in the lightbox
     my neighbor's giant weed is now quite impressive
she believes it is a tree.
Carli who is the only angel I've ever believed in,
reminds me of Amy, starfishing in the intense heat of the borough
She does a ballet leap for me and lands ungracefully.

There is a sound of development
here where the page was
decided, blank, slow chomp of an apple
of the woman behind me,
wide of her hips, now with a sob a rattle
that becomes a roaring
stomp of colored females.
I am indeed not interested in anything but the energy
that is the fuel of experience(s), is here choking
odor from a young mouth,
the incredible clouds that compels me to write,
a puddle of urine has surfaced beneath the cot.
The phone on the wall rings and I think of Liv
who I have not called in a long while.
She is -------------- not interested
in my technical development
It is indeed frustrating!
yes!
a child's mind is the long sought god particle,
it is neither a wave or whatever,
unrelenting genius whatever,
I read to them a book,
illustrated, about god but what was shocking
the lies that the father told his children.
Fight sounds are layered beneath bird songs
Cole watches me impatiently
and Christian is never tired, never
he is an example
he is the, represents the forces, wave, boson, whatever
that is the poem under my hand
that in the long silence of mid afternoon, w/ a
sheet over his head, great words are suffocating and scratch
out to gasp at and gasp in
a bite big of cumulus cloud
which is ever so delicious looking
ambrosia-like
it  tempts me on the highway as I almost die behind the wheel
In Virginia, I swam and lost my sunglasses.
In Virginia, I caught a frog that knew nothing of tasting clouds
or 95-S.
In Virginia were clouds that grazed Boston and Philadelphia
which blocked the collective views of Venus in transit and now we
must all wait another century.
Thank you, clouds.
Thank you, atmosphere.
In Virginia there eats away at me that danged frog.
In Cornwall-on-Hudson;
The Trestle.
The Stormkings eat spiced peaches
out of mason jars.

the girl a wind (variations)

1

The girl a wind
a   soft
grazing blow in turn,
at the opposite end of all
clocks a black
and fierce veil
that strings me into regrettable sleep

Once in the morning I have a few minutes where
I have forgotten everything
and in the middle of brushing teeth,
the sweet pain of the first stretch,
it makes its presence known by flipping the lace curtains

The man a lace
their love knocks the needles
of the house cactus,
catches us in the face
a swift sign of sun

This is an awful game
at night, the air is so still


2

The girl a wind
is a soft ball to the stomach,
flashes of first base dust,
powders her nose in freckles
in the upturned crescents of her eyes
fierce rolling curvature of her nose,
that grows smaller
behind each bus
(now is banned in Philadelphia)

the girl is perfect color to another
is as well harsh chartreuse
that leaves its ghostly silhouette
in the center of my vision

last night I dreamt all were infected by the wind and were sickened
and vomiting vital organs from the waves of yellow unicorn smoke
(a Manchurian tactic)

the girl a wind
so soft it comes stabbing in
between each drop of afternoon rain
I stand wet and dispelled w/ a brief taste
the wind, pulling at my hips toward one direction or another

w/ urine in my bandanna
and over my nose and mouth
do I stand unharmed in
a sea of dead men.

cccc

hand-over-hand techniques I'm using
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I wash my hands as I watch him wash his hands
I dry my hands as I watch him do the same

The teachers they don't like it when the chain is broken
or when two boys are holding hands, they prefer it boy girl boy girl
they tell me the reason is that when two boys are together in the chain
they tend to goof around which may be true but I don't think that's really their reason

I washed my hands of it, I threw my sweater over the pole
I have kraut in a bag I was going to eat
it is intensely bright and with that, the heat
the teachers gave me a grape icee

to be that young but locked in blissful routine
little arms wrapped round my waist
soft heads of hair
the air

mass

W/ the leap
blackbird draws my gaze across the window
where the power lines have crossed a path behind the yellow shed
rusted, now, still in the memory I had received top marks for,
why-song, the body my mother reminds me, why-song
and the mass in my father's chest, isolated and cruel in the dark
of him.

My mother and I stand opposite each other in the hallway, leaning,
the smell of burnt pollen, the golden crusts of it on the old machines
give way.

Frankford to Knights Rd to Aria
Patty w/ a Y social worker calls me
"How many steps to the house?"
"Three."

Questions that I hate to answer.
Details of our lives that need not matter.
It is not only so far away but obviously very close
subdued purple of the walkways   Main St
that leads me out back, far from where I entered.

Not here, the Pavilion, against the grey backs of generators,
a maze of malady,
a cough somewhere,
a hurdle.

transportation

1

on an Arabian she took off here in the final hour

that's alright I thought to myself looking up,
my father, he left a small pile of nails on the porch chair and I thought
it was so that the wild cat wouldn't sit there in the hot afternoons and guard the house
instead now he has three security cameras hooked up, I'm hooked up w/ a bottle here
and the Japanese rhumba

on an Arabian she took her time
it had gotten late across the entire parking lot

Shirin from Sudan who spoke French, walked with me to
Rite Aid several blocks up
Old Lancaster Rd. for cigarettes,
she asked if there were any French in the city
              and hell if I know

I know that picking special blends
won't help you quit at all,
right, professor?

to whom tobacco
in that instant,
when I lit up the room, is a pleasure.


2

With a scarab bisque she took too few sips
crab it may have been, rings that are always on those fingers
bringing me to gasps

the small stone stuck in the throat of the fish I had saved
329 E. Louden, telephone company man at the door of my grandmother's
he was supposed to be in west Louden, the other side of the blvd

my sister held her babe while my uncle and I sought out new fish
from South America, an albino Oscar perhaps
certainly two dark ones that never mated
that grew as large as my palms
and had died in a wok


3.

now it's Chelsea, she used to run around me
and by me, the red brick potter up the old street
by the concrete, up the rec field, too large a cemetery
play day, Feltonville primary, fluorescent five panels,
inflatable bouncing room, glue and glittered namesakes

mum's the word, next to me, fatty content
stay behind the class
after class w/ the teach

who had black hair and brown skin
my ESOL Egyptian
that's what they called it then

ABC carpet, Easter eggs boiling
my hand hurting from sentences
but my handwriting never suffered

why I never spoke to her
what's to say anyway
want me to chase you?

storm on A st.

Winter is gone and I mean me
I learned not to write of it,
askt instead for speech -- which is power

where it will be,

at the hearing on the 17th,
behind the wood and the face of
old whites, they are pink and white, powerful, as were taught

Mr. Woody, he was a large pink man who sold pretzels for 25 cents each
and said never to lean your head back when you had a nosebleed
because you will choke

I've never had a nosebleed, ever.
Absoposilutely. Sure.

Mr. Woody had a paper cut out of Woody Woodpecker on his office door.
One day I heard he had died.
Pretzels tasted of blood,
children dusted the sidewalks with salt,
blood, itself, salty.
I was salty, even.
Other kids were.
Other kids I knew, who died.

An old man w/ a large tricycle rode us kids up and down the block in his giant basket.
At the end of the block were Cambodians. Rathey and his brother who had all the Zords.
At the other end, Christian, who only pretended to be my friend.

My cousin and I staring
at five or more black kids
who stood on our front lawn.
I don't remember what happened after.
I suppose they finally moved.

One of the only white kids on the block askt for sugar and wrote 'THANKS' w/ it on our front steps.
My mother told me that in the morning, grandpa was sweeping all the ants away.

the bird that eats the bug

kiss early in the pale morning
kiss is as early as they come
in the night
         swept

thick lunch here,
mobile remnants,
the five red bites on my leg,
outward to the slant of the swampland
a suffocating cloud from this spawn
where I swam in
          last summer

honey snarls at me as I hook her to the lead
she growls, thinking she is playing
                  but too rough

underneath the maroon jacket, lines of her ruff play
yellow dirt
compliments
blue shirt