Gleaner's Cafe, October 5th, 2009

"I have a dream of acting once" like Branagh
 knowing the punchline and stretching

the nylon web across the cafe eaves, spiders'
plastic cling and vine lashed gourds

peering at the sunmap of an asphalt yard, Sketches of Spain
leaking from a subwoofer and honey and tea stains on the door.

The R5 Local to Thorndale, October 5, 2009

writing's not loud enough
I think I'll beat a hole in the wall

I'll smoke and quaver my
soul absence and I won't

care if it's bad, I'll just beat
until the paint flakes off

I'll percuss and wail my soul prism
in the dark world of rorschach fists

I'll crack warble and wail
I'll be a being beating machine

Julia Waits for the Bus, November 11, 1996

It's cold and Julia
has burnt toes,
rorschach apple
face. Joints where skin
flakes a red
pain.  She doesn't

like it much, can't
muffle properly,
huffs air through
pillowed lungs, blisters
organs with frost.
So cold!  She rubs

flesh to flesh, denim,
wool.  Her feet are
mausoleums, white
winters where something
now petrified lived.
.
"I'm walking on
rocks," she thinks.
And watches the empty
dogwoods fondle each
other, tongues a freeze
crippled thumb.  Her body
lemon-hued

like a breathing season
leans high action on the
stop sign.  Pluck
her tendons right, they
echo like a rings of an
old age--harmonics
of the bus that never comes.