it’s raining rats and dogs
or ferrets and hampsters,
carp and salamanders—
hell, you know what I mean, a hard rain
smacking the windows and grass,
pooling into mini-lakes in our back yard.
the sump pump, my hero,
is working on a fifteen second rest cycle.
i guess we need it, it’s spring and all,
flowers and bushes and trees taking in the rain
to create, again, our garden of Eden
minus the apple tree which we cut down
with the full knowledge
it was dying. a mercy kill. but it’s stuck forever
in my memory of this place
which we call home, for now.
there’ll come a time
when we’ll have to sell, when this house
will be a burden
we can’t manage, and some new family will move in,
two kids and a dog, and the house will wrap its arms
around them, and it will become their home,
not ours.…
...continue reading
I’d been expecting her Uncle Pat to come
meet me and when I pulled open the door,
there he stood, filling the door frame,
big enough to blot out the sun,
made even taller by black alligator boots
dulled by the south Texas dust still clinging to them
and a black Stetson
sitting centered above a wind-weathered face.
He didn’t bother coming across the threshold.
Just took off his hat and said
Hi, I’m Pat Shannon
in a voice like a Memphis blues man and
an accent that was 4th generation San Antonio.
You the one going to marry my niece?
a question punctuated by one raised eyebrow.
Yes, that’s right, sir.
Now he stepped into the room,
came close and crooked a smile.
Well good for you.…
...continue reading
[W]hen a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason – John Keats, Letter to George and Thomas Keats – December 1817.
The fog fades over the bay on New Year’s Day.
Pale blue surface drinking light. Flat
and glassy with a few ducks bobbing. I walk from
the Lesner Bridge to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.
Crisp as the calendar. Wispy clouds.
They’ve wrapped the giant supports in bolted
metal and weatherproof paint, but there’s no
such thing as permanence. Ask the poles
with no pier. Ask the dunes. Ask proud-fool
sailors about trusting the sea. The answer is laughter.
The answer is existence as long as Keats allows
and we believe in the concept known as
the second of January.…
...continue reading
After Jericho Brown & Terrance Hayes
Undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon
clutching sweating six-packs of cheap beer.
Clutching sweating six-packs of shitty beer,
white shirtless undergrads climb a ladder.
Shirtless white undergrads climb a ladder –
frat boys are drinking on their roof again.
frat boys are drinking on their roof again,
sound system pumping n-words & bass rumbles.
The sound system pumps n-words & bass rumbles
through open windows, backyards & boulevards.
Through open windows, backyards & boulevards
party music spreads hate & violence.
Party music spreads hate & violence –
undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon.
– Nathanael O’Reilly…
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Growing up, my favorite movie was Gigi.
Vincente Minnelli’s Paris
as a breathtaking canvas
filmed in a brutal heat wave.
The director had jangled nerves,
then whooping cough,
then he was bitten by a swan.
On screen: joie de vivre.
Colette brought to life
with Maurice Chevalier & Leslie Caron.
As a kid, I read Chevalier’s risqué memoir
three times.
Minnelli was born in a tent show.
Too shy to be an actor, he designed costumes
his father thought were ‘never good enough.’…
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This letter concerns your long unused eyes:
Be warned—while still seeing, you may vanish—
quick as light slips past its closed door. Your sigh
can’t kill darkness. Read these words now. You can
think through them later, by lost, cool lamplight—
Watch the letters with concerned eyes. Don’t use
fingers on this page. Follow, strict, left to right,
quick. Light fades behind that door. Sigh and you’ll
miss them the way you miss slyly thrown balls—
think later, swing now. Then learn to light lamps
while you can make out shapes you’ve known. Night falls
fast, like fingers counting strict time. Write left
handed now, read with broken eyes. Cast looks
past words you’ll miss, like the lost balls you’ve thrown
at diamonds you’ve never seen.…
...continue reading
She’s looking at something light—
………………..not the tree trunks on the right
……something on the left.
Say, sunset. Say, a salty breeze.
I dab white petals over the orange half disk,
……white out the breeze and shadows too,
…………smear grape, scales, and lemon juice all around
…………..the potatoes and potholes of her back.
(Reach inside her torso,
……the colors would darken instantly,
…………the bristles would spread, the wrist would ache.
Take a bite and it would taste like cotton candy
…………before catching in the throat.)
The trunks are too skinny. The paint is drying—
……………………………………….…………Time is running out.
Anyone can paint appearances—
……it’s not more difficult than lighting up a sky with whorls.…
...continue reading