Them Kind

Poets, a 

secret race

unacknowledged

by skin color. 

In my time

I've felt a few of them (eyes aren't much

of a help in the

matter). They

pass, in person

or, in the 

traditional way,

out of person, 

and some part of myself catches the rest

in recognition. 

"That was

a man or

woman, wasn't

it?" Or is 

gender just

the alibi? The

real ones don't

prove or fake. 

They

don't even put it to words. Except

to open up

old smart

calm places

between them. 

Anyone would be pulled apart by the vacation of 

having stood

even briefly

in one--a sharp

composed

resonant ride

beneath skin. 

That calm there has already been your mother,

with plans

    to be you 

    as well. 

They don't need you to read them. 

Eyes beside 

 

no point worth making. 

They need you to live them. 

Hope For Ghosts

Ate poisonous mushrooms for eight years

hoping to see her dead daughter in the visions.

Wound up in the ER at age 64 where the Old 97’s played

in the waiting area where she waited for several

long, toxic hours before seeing a doctor who didn’t

do much but tell her to stop with the mushrooms.

She thought, since when do they play music in the ER,

alt-country at that.  She thought, not gonna stop with

the mushrooms.  She thought, I do see things differently

now, so they must be working.  She saw strings in things.

All the time, now, ever since the last time.

The stringy substrate that holds it all together.

That’s all she saw, though.  No daughter.

The first time she ate them, at a friend’s house back in 2006,

it was Christmastime, or just after.  Her friend had a tree up

with all blue lights.  After the poison was coursing through her

body she sat and stared at the blue and it filled her eyes. 

She closed her eyes and the blue turned into a drawing her

daughter had done at age ten.   She felt sick from the poison,

but for the first time since the accident,

she felt peace. 

Since that night, she kept trying.  She was sure

that it was her daughter who showed her

the drawing, that she was there, attempting to communicate. 

Nothing else ever happened.

Just the strings.  Sometimes there were colors.  Sometimes

only darkness.  Always nausea and diarrhea and blood pain.

But no more messages

from the dead.  No daughter.

We can say that it’s crazy

or desperate or sad

to consume something toxic

again and again

hoping for a far-fetched illusion

to bring           some small crumb

of comfort.                 But who

down here                in this world

made of strings             can really

                   blame her

all that much      for trying ?

Wildwood, New Jersey

Fringe happened

and hair bigger

than any night sky.

Ocean stars beckon something

else, something sinister

and beautiful.

There was this place

on the boardwalk (where

it was windy all

the time) where

they promised to make you a Star

in an instant.  Framed photos

of young Madonna and men

that looked like women, tough

and lovely and alien.

They made you a Star

by taking you into a recording

booth, a small, sweaty room

that smelled of cigarettes

and onions and allowing you to sing

your song of choice over the original music,

like Karaoke that lasted forever.

It was tempting, but I never did it.

My uncle Ed did once.

He came home all proud with

a cassette tape and played us this

awkward version of “Fight For Your Right to Party.”

The truth, though,

about Karaoke is

that it should never last any longer

than around three and a half minutes,

four minutes tops.  Any longer

than that is a little obscene.

I don’t know.  It might have been worth it. 

Ed was pretty damn satisfied with that song,

and you know what, his mom

seemed proud of him, too,

and all of us kids loved it

when he played it for

us that night he got

home, smiling so big

it hurt his face.

That Mineral Point Summer Was Terrible But Drenched in Song

All these Bollywood

Indian sisters sound

the same, he said

then walked upstairs.

We were blinded

in a town

80 people small

the year our luck turned

to jelly.

We never minded

going nowhere

without any more than

whatever we could grab

between our teeth,

though some days

seemed inarguably nasty. 

I liked to think I could tell the difference

between their voices, Lata, Asha, and

Usha, their gorgeous, orchestrated

wailing, but any variation

was meaningless to my crude ears.

I listened to them anyway, nearly

nonstop, all Wisconsin summer long, and as

our lives fell apart, deep in the sticks,

in my head

I saw people dancing.

The Toynbee Tiles

Having gone full ice

I fell down, melting

in many

droplets, particles

to be reconstituted

years later

on the Planet

Jupiter.  On Earth, 

we were many

alive with 

problems, most

of them imaginary. 

You know how it goes.  One

minute I am the rain and the next

many, many people. 

Humans.  All of us

had trouble with

remembering

what     it was

we came from.  We were

sea-rain, sky-sun

flesh-bodies

and at last

forgetful mountains

of molecules heading

up

to resurrect us.