Monster Movie

Ordinary life going on and then
buzz woof thud unseen in desert,
pantry, pond. More sinister than
mosquito biting sleeping man

is that thing now hulking about or
inhabiting flesh and will already.
See how they mow their yards
at first and kiss their kisses

while all the while that
trembling gob waits to change
lives past recognition or repair.

 

 

from the Danny poems

Lost in Transit

ms sky flp poss transit mod 1 rszd

When you pull your old self out to show,
the dead you don’t know and the dead you do
come smiling recognition who you are:
just nothing but what they think they know.

Shirt like lost dog on suburban corner
or sneaker highway-side, the occasional
eyeglasses, apron, longjohns, brassiere
next to those places we all pass by–

so much for us and the people we know,
even when they lie next to us night by night.
The old self-us they dream, while we’re in flight.

Said

He treats what she says as if it were ___________. She hears what he says as if it were __________, though she wishes __________.

She thinks it is always _________ and always __________. He thinks it is never __________ and always _________.

Some evenings they __________ to themselves, but somehow _________ never __________. It would be the same, she thinks, if they __________, despite the fact that they __________.

Looking back later on, it was clear that __________ had __________ all along. All along what he’d really been saying was __________. But at the time, she had no __________ and thus couldn’t have __________ even if she had __________. It was just __________. It was just __________.

 
 
 
 

And now it is

And now it is. You are who.
You are not who you are.
You are who you are not.
We are out reaching our touch.
We are who you. Yes, true.
Everybody is knowing.
We know every body. When is
our seahorse and our spinster?
We get in there and squeeze.
We engineer. We made the moon.
The daily do deemed.
The creep in the ceiling. Skin.
Even your atomic weight. Vote.
Our bomb parade smacks the book.
Our armored interface a maze.
Our retrograde clock out.
Our radiation is an open door.
And our pen’s a knife.

 

alarming thing

the alarming thing
does not wear off         wears off
where words come from         condensation
the thing you’re         housed by
that you         clothe and feed
the trudge         the small bed
the dreaming thing         the bower bird
crowd of neon         shiny things
oh the things I         make for you
for you        for you        for you
the talking pond         take it back
to the laboratory         see what it is
oil sands         an abrupt cold spell
populations         slow cave
even dying one         must not be able
to believe it         one must think
this must be         what dying feels like
       
       

Hideout

polar bear watch

who is that one inside you you know
the one that can’t get out but does
the one that bangs-out all your love

still after ever you are not as bad
as you feel in other people’s dreams
all that water leaking from your heart

all those phantoms lined up at your till
all that clawing just beneath the grate
cicadas shut inside your ears to stay

twenty million years and still it tastes
the way it tasted when they locked it up
when homicide still counted as a date

we disregarded side effects like death
we tried to fool our predators with paint
what didn’t kill us never made us strong

that lashing girl where’s she at now
we miss her amplitudes and autoclave
god-a-mighty how we miss her little dog

image from University of Washington Digital Collections http://bit.ly/UbZ4Yz

Lull

sky lull crp 1 grn mod cmpr

How unhappy they were, all those men,
waiting for a stiff wind, maybe later
some marauding, meanwhile not bothering
to stay on the big guy’s good side,
having killed enough not to care too much
about dying.

Boats creeping along, no one resisting
hopes to simply wash ashore, their minds
drifting further out, each wondering
what he did to displease the gods—then
wondering who the someone else was who
displeased the gods.

Then there is of course the king,
carrying always about himself
the prison of their previous gratitude,
the punishment of brooding looks,
such danger in looking a bit too much
like a mere man.

It was in no one’s nature to be good
becalmed–old passions inspired fresh
affliction. Then they prayed to any god
who loved the things they knew: sand and stunted
shoreline trees, and war. All the rest is
speculation.