Route 66 En Garde


Kicked-to-the-curb America
is packed and headed west —
who cares what litter-strewn
history it leaves in its wake?

Let’s trash the whole damn place,
smash every knuckle we have
down the throat of Lady Bird’s
beautiful spaced out skies.

Families or not, all
wheels on the move
for adventure, a handshake
and opportunity across
a seething desert
with no air conditioning.

Static whines on and on.
Bugs kamikaze the windshield
With their yellow and green pulp.

Somewhere
a triceratops guards
the check-in office
on this highway of truck stops
and dinosaur-themed motels.

We look for arrows of neon
search the horizon for a signpost
toward our own personal Twilight Zone
                    one where a dude with a skinny tie

points us to Next Stop Miniature Golf,
This Ramp Fresh Beef Jerky
Two Miles to Tumbleweed Cafe
over the edge to anywhere but here

We are in the back
seat of privilege singing
with Dinah Shore See the USA
in a Chevrolet. Black and white TV
told us this was the dream,
and it alone the dreamer.

In the Place But Not Of It

Within the silence
of the past but not
of memory: desire

I call out
speak to me

and wait in the silence
for more silence
no echo
but palpable
darkness surrounds
me with webs hidden
from sight

part of this place
but not of it

The distant pinprick
of transfigured light
narrows through caves
of my own making
there is no happiness
in this —

unaware of self
let go the wounded self

Jonah at Five Months


Wiggling sprig, let the world
Wind up its delight machine

You newfangled sprout
You sloppy kiss
You whirling carousel
                              of abundant shebang

All is yes and exclamation!

Who can deny you?

Not the wind — humming
Its lullabies in your ear at night

Or that October sun
Waiting for you each morning
All butterscotch and honey

Let it spill
             over
Ooze
Gold laughter
                  and joy
                              sweet
                                          sweet joy

The Somnambulist’s Lament


1.

Had I noticed sooner, I still
would not have believed it.
No matter how I’ve shuffled —
then reshuffled — those old ghosts,
at best, it was an inconvenience.
The scratching in our walls
became commonplace.

I got by, sleeping.

Then one day, insects
claimed majesty.
First the air soured
crisped the edges,
only the edges
of breath, then banked
toward the unsuspecting heart.


2.


Two days before exposure
I swallowed untruth
because it was easier
than to face his spray-on rage,
grind my jaw to tune him out,
and dab the foundation Flesh #5
before the cameras roll.

He could pass for human.

Just cover up the slime
with a bad comb-over
camouflage that belly
behind red silk lies.
But remember, stealing
the art in the still-beating
heart will not save him.