Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Lone Comma

The poisoned thorn, that I picked it up
was the cause and beautiful outcome
predestined by the bus accident down the street?

I was not in the poem subsequently published
it was a sporting event, good for the racists it decried
the noise of the sobbing distracted the driver

pinned by metal inside, she tries to think
of pale blue sand beaches, a man with woman’s features
regrets never having sex with a geode, or hardly

Sgt. Condo who served in the War of the Moment
the man of her dreams, an invalid with pay
a tree opaque, the emergency door held shut by kids

I have still not entered the performance, I am reticent
retired without severance, bitter about the 401K
no more cameos, I record the movements, I record the movements

of dust, airborne skin, on wet paint
what can you say about death in yellow, slowly folding in
the inevitable decline of third season sitcom writing

to be is not the question to be concerned with, ameliorate
it’ll do you no good in the long run, arms flailing
a matted montage of you and your only remaining horse

and she was invalided by a scale
certain numbers have no purpose, i.e. 249, 263, etc.
the interest of scarabs in reducing themselves to talismans

we’re thinking of naming the girl Sahara
the other girl Gobi
and the boy a very foolish thought

the one with the powers could not be divined
she tried to paint the sunlight yellow
butter with bread as excess baggage