So you're home. Key to the lock, your clutter
and doubt through the door, hang your coat on its claw,
your palm in bloom, your shadow half-opened.
Any wonders under the bed, in the bend
of your knee? Any new or made new or nomads who
make songs into houses? It's humid,
humming in the locust trees, with eleven rings
on the telephone. Lift that crescent to your ear
and dust off your laughter, some dissonant love;
there's one with a brick house, and one who loves
to break. Where is a calm as is?
Half asleep, bottled in with the breeze,
one world yawning, another burning
too far from your door.
Where's here, or our? Where rivers
branch in your fist, and your errors
stand by you, won't blame you for
the rigid outlines you unloosed through the door.
Enough. And half, then another
paper clip, a clapping thunder,
book in your lap, feet on a chair,
when some haggard cherub
says you're neither particle nor wave
nor even disquiet tonight—has the weave
of kisses come undone again?
Are you too stubborn again? But then your brain
unbuttons, drifts to the floor, and pure
as the past, you start over.
View from a Temporary Window
University of Pittsburgh Press
So Jack's car is in the shop again, which puts him in a really crabby mood. My usually easy-going son is frustrated and huffy. Needing to let off a little steam, he went with his girlfriend Dan, with whom he spends three hours a night at the Y, to Suburban Tap after their workout. Did not get home until 2 in the morning. Five hours later, he was dragging around in the kitchen, watching the coffee drip, when I asked him what he was thinking--staying out so late:
Jack: I dunno.
TR: Seriously, Jack. What could have been so fascinating?
Jack: Well, Dan was there, and Vickie, and B.T...
TR: Oh, B.T.'s mom lets him stay out till 2?
Jack: Yeah, she realizes he's pretty much 18, and there's not much she can say about it.
TR: I see. And does B.T. ask his mother to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to take to school every day?
Jack: Are you going to give me a ride or what?
Now available from Snake Nation Press.
NUDE BOWLING AT THE GOODTIME BOOGIE
Ananaya of the Brown Nipples
is trying to sweep up a spare,
my mate in line behind her.
Others chat in the darklight
of candles and campfires,
but I’m too queasy for small-talk;
I’ve been over-served again.
I’m overwhelmed of the senses--
preponderance of flesh,
reek of patchouli and cannabis,
competing beats of drum circles.
Open-air showers, a communal
kitchen: I’m tired of dirty
fingernails, greasy scalps,
unchecked pheromonal ooze;
tired of this weekend
of musical gender-bending
out-ness; and tired, too,
of this game they’ve made
of paneling, pins,
and bales of hay, played
sans sarong. It brings to mind
my father’s famous costume soirees--
any excuse to don a diaper
or a hula skirt, scant enough between
his particular urges
and any woman not my mother.
Well, who but I would drag out
the rags of her childhood
during naked competition?
Who, but I, wearing a mere scrap
of fabric, knotted at the hip.
But back to the point: Sadie and Lo have agreed to write down what they consume each day and call each other in the evenings to discuss. So I had this exchange with Lola before school this morning:
Lo: Did you put brownies in my book bag for snack like I asked you to?
TR: I did. Sadie's not going to like that.
Lo: I know. Hey, I promised her I'd try a new food every week.
TR: What are you thinking about trying first?
Lo: Well, I've never had the mint Three Musketeers.
That's what I think every time I hear this song. I mean, there she's been, looking forward to going out...she has the dress and the perfect shoes....But hey, just leave the t-shirt on and cancel the reservations. Maybe she can fry him up some chicken.