The Status of My Book of Poetry

I'm collecting these poems like cranes,
Flying back to where they were folded,
Where the wind blew them from my arms.

I'm adjusting these poems like so many lenses,
Focusing on the minute minutes,
Twisting my eye like a Stevenson character.

I'm filing these poems like taxonomy
Decorating each one with dead Latin,
Asking them nervously to stand still while I count.

I am weighing these poems like cantaloupe
Using balance beam hands to hold
Both them and the memory they're worth.

I'm cutting these poems like nails
Trying hard not to rip them with my teeth,
No one wants blood at the cuticle.

I'm writing these poems like a ghost,
Face full of fingers, staring in foggy windows,
Kissing my words on the glass.

Stubborn

She slams the jump rope and against the ground, refusing to to jump.
Thinking the ground, for a brief moment, will fall from beneath her
And return,
Giving her the illusion of play.

The Drunkard

Someone's father can barely walk tonight.
Someone's husband just tripped over a shallow curb.
Someone's son just used the silver Pugeot to brace himself.
Someone's neighbor just sat on a nearby bench to rest.
Someone's math teacher will cross streets unable to see the cars.
Someone's friend will trip on the white lanes of the road.
Someone's childhood sweetheart will raise his hand to the light.
Someone's brother will close his eyes and smile,
Thinking of the people who will, under breath, apologize.

He hired that boy as a horse
Brought him trotting from some Indonesian pasture
Gave him Parisian stripes and narrow legged jeans
Cut his silky hair into a mane.

He bridled that boy with an arrogant pout
Made him royalty, queen, harem, gold-leaf slave.
When busy he ties the boy to railings
To people, to large unmoving bodies of water.
When done, he unties the boy and leads
Him down the small streets of the city,
Walking a step in front of him,
Pulling when necessary.

He hired that boy as a horse,
To ride, like Godiva through his aging biography.

Vouille Market

I wade through the market
That is a stagnant lake.
Small Kiosks of shoes and boot-legged DVD's
Float like algae on the water's surface.
I swim slowly, careful not to touch
The dead birds that float in my path.
A frozen covey, ruffled in flight,
Their feathers pass beneath me
Attached to walkers, groomed pets, bruised canteloupe.
They feverishly amble in and out of my way.
The water of the market clings like web
And every time their unwashed jackets touch me
I'm sure that I will drown.

Is It Enough

That I would hold you in place,
While earth spins beneath your elevation.
That I would seek you in darkness,
Amidst wolves, in woods, on wind.
That I would weave your name
With wet reeds and bendable words.
That I would mix your bones in loose soil
Plant orchids and stargazers.
That I would dress you in morning
Sunrise draped on your arms like lace.
That I would know you as I know myself,
Feel your blood pump in the valleys of my wrists.

Is it enough that I would lie prostrate in your temples?

A Pretty Poet Call-out: Why I Don't Think You Wrote That

Poets should be ugly people.
It's not quite fair if they're not.

Not disfigured, not monstrous, not Picasso per se,
Just run of the mill ugly.
No homecoming queens, no prom queens, no pageant queens.
Maybe just no queens, save Freddie Mercury,
Certainly worthy of being a poet.

No strong jaw-lines, no cut muscles.
If you are a poet these things are not allowed.
Your six pack abs don't get to write a rondeau
I'm not even comfortable with your six pack abs being able to spell rondeau
You can't write sestinas in with a 32 inch waist or a size 4 cocktail dress.
You need to be too large or too small
you can't fit into the world if you want to write poetry.
you've got to be the wrong size, push yourself in
That's why people write poetry,
To push themselves into beauty.
That's why it works.

We don't have beauty balanced on our high cheek bones, the perfectly straight bridge of our button nose.
We don't have tiaras nestled in our cloud like hair, perfectly curled cumulus.
We don't have legs that go for miles,
Bodies that just won't stop.
Our legs end at our hips, our ankles
Our bodies stop.
and we write so our bodies are the only things that stop.

Poets can't be beautiful,
and if they are, It's certain
there's an ugly person pushing them.