One New Message

Hey Uncle Gerard-

Sorry about this afternoon and the whole hot dog up your nose thing. And the mustard in the moustache. And the barbecue sauce in the beard. And sorry about Kafka eating it right off your face. You were a good sport about the whole thing, but I still wanted to let you know how sorry I was. I’ll see you next week at the shuttle launch. You bring the bananas, I’ll bring the souffle.

“Who’s Gonna Fuck You When You’re Dead?”

is certainly the best thing I’ve overheard
so I can’t take credit for it
but I can relay the splendor to you
and we can both laugh and chuckle

the couple was gone down the street
before I could react
they were incredibly fast walkers
for being so grey and poorly dressed

but what the man said
in that moment
has stuck with me for ten years
and by now the guy is a wise sage
in the rolodex of my memories

(published in Madswirl)

Cabin Fever

 

The spine of the snow worm
clings to the molded wooden railing

patterned ice vertebrae
of ovals spiraling away
refracting light onto the beige siding

and a shadow of season’s death
still being chewed in it’s frozen jaws
falls toward the pit of my stomach
spreading cold rock panic

2.

They found him
eighty-six years and thawing
negative twenty wind chills
stole his breath-
his son claimed he had Alzheimer’s
but others know better
being permanent residents of Michigan
and all

3.

We aren’t supposed to be here
and those who could migrate
did

There’s always death in the air
‘round this time of year

the brave hunker down
blow their noses
and wait for the finish

Church of the Whooshay

cue:
Kenny G
“Songbird”

read slowly:

(The pinnacle of our society:
the supermarket)

we all come together
over toothpaste
woks
and reduced-price DVDs

we all walk the walk
of the fluorescent aisles

we all talk the talk
of green
plastic
and food stamps

we pray as one
over the checkout lane
hands reaching for wallets

we go to one
that’s the same as
the next one
and the next one

we are held together
by the mystical power
of purchase

we are ushered in
by the invisible hand
of the Whooshay

we pray to him
and load our carts
to our favorite songs
quietly piped in

Fourth Meal

Swung by in a rush
for fast food Mexican

the voice inside the box
totaled me out
then asked one more
perplexing question:

“would you like to donate a dollar
to help end world hunger?”

I tried for a second
to reason out why this seemed insane
because
there’s something really ridiculous
in the idea of tacking on a buck
to my three dollar and seventy-nine cent
burrito combo
to help those who are starving

I’m starving
I thought
and that’s why I’m here
in this sticky cement drive thru lane

didn’t my first three dollars
already go to the cause?
isn’t world hunger a little weaker
once I have satisfied my own?

I asked the voice:
how many meals in all
does my dollar provide?

no hesitation in the response:
five meals for one child

oh wow-
I said, excited-
does this mean I can maybe get
one of those meals for like twenty cents
and just skip the three dollar one?

The Meeting

miles davis and john coltrane
myself
in a giant empty loft

white with a million windows
the sun omnipresent outside
as if there actually was an outside

they approached me
instrument cases open
miles’ trumpet was wood
‘trane’s tenor was darker
but still wood

I took it from the case
and discovered that I played
amazing saxophone
almost as good as ‘trane

I improvised
fluttered notes into the air with ease
while my heroes looked on
approving smiles on their faces

I’m a versatile and inspiring musician
in my dreams, yet
as quickly as the tones rolled from the horn
I found myself flat on my face
the pillow wet
the sun white under my eyelids
the melody held in my mind for a moment
before slipping away

This Is Michigan, Motherfucker

This is Michigan, motherfucker

This is your ass in the snow
wet and cold

This is you
out on the line
looking for work
on a frozen bench

These are your stiff fingers
smoking a Basic menthol
rock hard and seared with yellow

This is you
tearing down factories
pissing in the river
smoking cement blunts
and sticking your finger up
straight to the heavens
motherfucker

This is your television
telling you things will be okay
in a couple of years
but definitely not next year
because
next year’s gonna be even worse

This is Michigan, motherfucker

smirk furrow and smile

want to make money now?

sell your hairspray
your bag o’ cheetos
and your indefatigable soul

sell your words to the devil
your gonads to god
and your plants to the fire

cheese it up
in the meatball stew
that is your suburb

head south and
dip your dreams in queso

disinfect in clouds of cumin
and boil the water for bulimics

buy a suit made of Sacagawea dollars
and polish it with pornstar semen

fire rubber chicken shotguns
at the strip mall shoppers
and run away with their shiny pants

want to make money now?

be vigilant and broker some stocks
in a shady corner with terrorists
while mudwrestling them in gooey crude

smirk
furrow
and smile

repeat

Lansing

you’re a staunch tuna sandwich
a familiar mars bar
the drunk guy giving quarters to some floozy
at the end of the bar

you’re the reality
and the meth the billy brewed
in his moldy basement

you’re a dead dream
rolled up and decomposing
in the industrial park by the dam

oh melting molding city
you’ll forget me when I leave

and you’ll keep me warm
in your fungus folds
if I must stay in this
burly hole

Away For the Holidays

I dream of turkeys without wings
or a way out, trapped in circles
in the yard, burning infinity into the grass

ten birds absorbed in a pattern
detailed with neon brown blur
as the neighborhood watches on
with forks and meat thermometers at the ready

there’s money cascading from the roofs
and our windows are bursting with stuffing,
but dad is on it, he’s looking for the tray
and the special set of wine glasses

(somebody has to know the rules)

sister is in the basement with Jack
mixing 100% juice and acid
listening to Zappa weird up the place
through the one good speaker in the house

mom left with spoons and the carving knife
a trail of chocolate liquor imprinted by her heels
and short-ish men following her liquid scent

I dream of exhaust smoke and money:
thank you for the cancer
thank you for the sex
thank you for the cancer
thank you for the sex

the station wagon gallops away, back into time
the picture growing grainier by the second
while the crossover hybrid shinester
expands into one big pixel, triumphant

(this poem appears in Calliope Nerve 15)