Mount Pinatubo

 There's a thing, some sort of

eruption

on my skin

and it

vibrates

 

every time the autobus bounces

and the chickens flutter

as if, dreaming, they are back in their shells

desiring

rebirth

 

as eagles or raptors or some undreamt-of symbol

rising

through the roof of the autobus.

 

There is a blemish,

some sort of eruption

on my skin and boiling beneath Mount Pinatubo.

 

The day is hot,

and I am dizzy,

as we go around the curve

on this mountainside which has no

guard rails

and never did.

My Gibbet

My gibbet is a fine and private place

where a lady may tarry of a summer afternoon

elevated and untouchable--

an ideal love just out of reach

like fruit for Tantalus, all pointless sweetness.

Allen Ginsberg appears from out of the crowd,

pink as a schoolmarm, fat as a Christmas goose

carrying his harmonium

singing about plutonium,

barefoot as any angel, toking on the Golden Blunt.

He looks up, mistaking me for a caught kite

dangling above the street in my gibbet

making other women's children

point and cry

demanding candy or weather reports.

Someone climbs up and ties tin cans

to the bottom of my gibbet

in an atmosphere of giddy holiday.

I die and begin to stink

pieces falling away like confetti.

Here I sway to this very day, high above 

the Emily Dickinson Parkway

a paragon of virtue and demure reserve,

dead as hell

black as a bowling ball

ring still on my finger, an ingenue of the afterlife, 

until gentrification when they'll take me down

because gibbets are out, they're upsetting,

like poetry, 

like dead dodos

like buskers in the subway, beautiful, buried, irrelevant.

_______

for Word Garden Word List.

Cirque de Soliel

 

Coins fell from the sun--

I ate one and lived in darkness for a year.

I said to the sun, "I can never trust you again."

A peach appeared in my hand.

I hired a cook who worked in dough and ash.

I fed bread to my dogs and lived on the last.

Magpies fell from the sun--

they mated in my mirror and made eggs out of glass.

My cook killed the birds, my dogs killed the cook

and married me off to an eight-winged ghost.

My house has a thousand turrets and attics.

The sun rises pink and sets red, automatic.

I put a coin inside a peach like a pit.

There's a ghost inside my skull in a nest.

My dogs fuss and tear and bury the rest

in my heart with my hopes and such similar shit.

_______________

for Word Garden Word List--Kindred

Music: Jackson C. Frank My Name Is Carnival 

Lebanese Dove Lost in A Mexican Market

 

I awake on a sidewalk as a bird

and in a moment of comic idiocy

I fly into a store

                         where a woman swings a broom at me,

shouting, "Un pájaro!"

She misses me by inches

as I have missed so many things

by inches or miles

                             and if she breaks my wings

her dustpan will be my grave.

Once, I knew--or dreamed

your skin by Tiffany lamp.

In those days,

                      the mornings were quiet and damp

like a woods at first light

where we could go walking

and not worry where we'd been.

I careen into packages of pasta

which fall like pilgrims to the floor.

The woman spits, 

                              "Ay! Diablo!" and has no more

pity for me than a loaded gun.

How did I become a bird

in this ridiculous situation?

I remember the day when you left

with your bags like a brood of chicks

gathered at your feet

                                   in their nest of sticks

like burning incense.

Now, I am a mourning dove without a sky

with a new woman now, who shouts, "Diablo! Ay!"

_______________

For Word Garden Word List--Light, Coming Back

Music: Gary BB Coleman The Sky Is Crying

Miracle

 

Will it take a miracle

(they asked)

for me to get my head out

of my vast

open

spaces?

It would be a miracle

(they said)

if I ever

got ahead

with my dreamy dumbbell drifting ways.

All roads lead to Rome

(I answered)

for me and all my sister

second chancers

sobering up

right under your noses.

There is no miracle

(they insisted)

that could drive home the wisdom 

you've resisted 

until you see how

we only diss you 

because we love you,

silly cow.

The only miracle 

I find in it

is that they may all

eat sh--

elled peanuts without me 

at the circus I miraculously

ran like hell from.

______ _

For What's Going On?--Miracles.

Music: Entry of the Gladiators 

Baseball Game In The Prison Yard

 There is a ballgame in the prison yard.

A silver dollar stands on its edge on the gallows

and shivers with every hammer stroke.

Hit it and walk free.

An eagle perches on the crossbeam,

worrying at the rope. All the batters are blind

and in terrible slumps. 

In the morning if the rope snaps, you'll see the afternoon.

John Baal, the Babe Ruth of the Big House

swings hard and misses; the earth wobbles

and Krakatoa blows. 

Cigarette, prisoner? Blindfold? 

For my last meal, I request all my past mistakes

and they are served on a cracked plate. 

The eagle is fascinated with its shine and my Morse.

I yell "Pull!" and sling the plate through the bars. 

A home run,

the first in years,

hits it and it blows.

See the eagle and the white shattered stars.

See the runner circling like a constellation.

One way or the other, I will leave this prison tomorrow

like a three-run shot.

________

For Desperate Poets "Desperate Oracles." 

I drew one card from my Medicine Cards-- #1, the Eagle. 

I drew another from my Baseball Tarot--major arcana XII the Slump, analogous to the Hanged Man in a normal Tarot deck.

These fit, as I have been experiencing both spiritual power--my sobriety anniversary was Friday--and weakness in the form of a preceding depression. 

Process note: I swiped "John Baal, the Babe Ruth of the Big House" from Philip Roth's "The Great American Novel."

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

My Queendom for a hair clip,

plastic gizmo that I prize

as my hair in the wind whips

in my mouth and face and eyes.

My Queendom for a hair clip,

though I cannot see to search

I think I know right where I left it

so off I weave and feel and lurch.

My Queendom for a hair clip.

Here it is, hey wait what huh??!!?

Hope I don't skid or skate or slip

And smack my forehead, falling, DUH!

---------

for Sunday Muse # 158.

The Blemish

In the morning, the blemish appears.

Haughty mountains, snow-topped, hard as weapons.

Brave explorers dying in a violent wind.

The blemish brings with it

divorce,

financial ruin,

the sniggering of false friends who ride in your ears.

Blemishes through history:

the canker of Robespierre.

the pimple of Marie Curie.

the cold sore of Trostsky, as he folds papers into bullets,

himself the hapless one,

sitting in a chair with an antimacassar,

a revised edition with limited press run.

On the thankless mountain side, Sir Edmund Hillary

examines a blemish with gloved hands,

his visage cracked across the cheek in a broken mirror.

The sherpa sniggers, riding in his ear.

Upon return, parades,

dinners,

divorce,

disaster.

The appearance of the blemish betokens the icy  marksman,

behind you there,

delivering the avalanche

dead center, mid-beat, shattering.

_______

Think Fast

 

We come from clouds

and end in dirt.

In the time between,

a reeling dance,

a disappearing interval

where

panic

and 

ecstasy

look very much the same.

_____

for Sunday Muse #121