Saturday, November 29, 2014

FIELD DAY

Those apple cheeks—
blithely applying 
to curtsy—then doffing 

just about every
single 
prim hat in huge warm Macy's—driving 

loafing factions—
of firmly-
ensconced men from her psyche

to spontaneously—
stand tall 
and fall 

wildly all 
over each other to over-
compliment her.

Friday, November 28, 2014

PRELUDE—

The subtle way in which
certain music—flits
and sits

upon the heart—
wrenching
a faint

but cocksure—shit
oh shit
oh
shit
oh shit—probably

all of that—
was already it.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

VACANCY

Not exactly—
the warmest
of all

holiday wishes! pantomime 
voices—
crushmouthed

from  
porches' odd corners—of
still so many!

rotten 
frozen 
pumpkins—

OUR TOWN

Truth be told—
it might 
just have been all of the

murky gray light—
circumscribing each subsequent

frostblurry
sight—down years of westward narrowing
long streetside 

edges—
of such 

hulking slate 
colored knit clothes—of
puffy blue navy
and mustardbrown
downstuff swathed figures

each marching silent
clockwork onward—

solitary—larger
than life;

that—eventually
provided the 
least troubled berth—

the the whole sort of now-
mythical
big shoulders idea.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

SO INCLINED

Feeling—
eventually

winter awake—
and thus 
far

far away 
from that burden—all
primrose

and pink tiffany—
of dull sleep's
palesoft prison

and its
ameliorating decor;

a little bloom
condenses
and clings—and oozes 
forth—waltzing on false
feet to manifest

vast colonies 
through my outter cerebrum—
to the effect that
all I want 
for Christmas this

year—is the same cornflower 

blue mug 
of black coffee—and maybe a little more of that powdery-

delicate 
goldtinned cache of
equanimous stuff—over and over and over
and over.

Monday, November 24, 2014

MUSTARD MAN!

There's nothing much—to see here
folks; he's
just your average—run
of the 

mill, bland super-
natural man.

Still somewhat of a card 
now and then, but
mainly around the emptier

kinds—of supper tables;
where it's austere 
and it's dark and late
and safe enough
to mumble through—

certain prepared remarks 
and droll little self-
deprecating numbers 

about—how
the source 
of his true power lies

in his rapacious capacity
to absorb 
and then smother—
the exceptional with the ordinary.

For instance—the most significant thing
to him 
about the lifegiving starlight
that fills your planet—

is just exactly—
and only—

the fact
that it's yellow;

or else, that he heartily dislikes that his—certainly
rather impressive!—and rippling
arms chest and belly;

still shake
when he laughs

like a bowl full of—he'd probably 
pretty uncannily 
quickly interject—toilet water.

Friday, November 21, 2014

SUN DIAL

As one 
round little 
black pebble eye at a time—unflinching

gyrates back 
and forth again to pierce—with needling beak
the mottled measly 
scraps of a bygone 

November payed 
parking lot lawn for whatever—my hulking shadow
and I

come flooding 
by—directed by the same 
instantiation of wind

to focus—even more narrowly 
on how 

on-point 
the bakery's black 
coffee tastes this morning.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

COPENHAGEN INTERPRETATION

What
in the—
what?
in the what?—
in 
the 
what in
the—world! do you think you're 

doing?—chortles on your old
coffin grey
boiling-over kettle

in perfectly
curt harmony 
with that—nonstop murmuring toilet;

trying so hard
to instantiate 

any
two things—at once?

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

JUST PEACHY

The concept
of the universe 
next door—lectures the doctor

isn't misunderstood 
so much—as 
it is

too poor-
ly apprehended;

Meanwhile
on the other side
of the world—

a hungry child cries
quietly
while—
the whole host

of weightless 
pagan angels 
weeps—and wonders lamentably 
why

there's seemingly—still
nowhere 
down on earth

where they've dreamt
of engineering—
nectarine pie yet.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

MIDDLEWEST SUTRA VORTEX

Practice your most serene 
streak of a 
half-smile—today for

at least—
as long as it 
takes for the overripe 

avocado green and
chartreuse mottled 
dogshit—that's currently

chortling—variously down
your dominant 
hand's middle 

and index 
and little ring
fingers—to just

relax—and hush-
up—for long enough
to freeze solid.

Monday, November 17, 2014

DRY RUN OF AURORA OVER ANYTOWN USA—

Mauve apple-
cheeked winter 
muse, still-
dim little

patron of my
bluewhite particle
physicist's imagination—if you care
at all,
then listen

well to me
here—and respond,
in good 

old-fashioned
American, si'l vous plaƮt;

at this 
stage—in particular,

is there really any specific
rocket's
red glare temperature?—or rather

is it 
just all that—sort of 
nonspecific 
chilly early light

that I truly 
ought—to fritter 

away my kitchen 
counter cream

and sugar—
splitting 
hairs over?

Sunday, November 16, 2014

JUSTICE 4 TRAYVON

Behind dark glass—
intimations

of broad tables
white 
bowls brimming—up underneath 

their various faces—
strange and
severalcolored and 

congregated—there
as 

usual—casually
over Sunday brunch.

Friday, November 14, 2014

MACHIAVELLIAN

Goes quite a long
quiet way—toward warming 

your slow-
ly
ameliorating 

snow-
flake of a soul—how

only
Dunkin' Donuts 
knows—

to still dole-
out its profoundest coffee

sizes—in comfy
deleterious—
styrofoam.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

EVERLASTING

Deep 
in the November of your enduring 
mindthere's a tree;

an imaginary one
whose craggy limbs—nearlybare
already—currently

sit—
picked swift-
and
perfectly clean—by hosts

of rapacious dark
scavenger birds—
each heedless 

one 
of which—somehow
now broods  

still
and satisfied—
it appears—by the mere dimmest


ulcerating
intimations of next year.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

LISTEN TO HAROLD BUDD

Because yup—your neighborhood 
and beyond 
this morning 

are nothing—but disinclined 
row
after frostbitten
row

of chilly brick
glum and tightwindowed 
faces—each

dimlit 
in the stoic mid-
November air

by circumspect sun-
light 
already receding—but by
god-

damn—lookit: you're still 
holding 
tight to your little

shy ton
of indisposed—stuff to do.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

DR. WHOM?

Emblazoned 
backwards—from right 
to left 

across the immeasurable inside—of another raggedy  
practitioner's sour
doe eyes;

if there's—one absolute 
thing
in whole world

that the
whole world collectively—absolutely
will not abide,

it's a singularly 
sky
blue kind of a world—on a singular 

day—on which
nobody dies.

Monday, November 10, 2014

BEST MEDICINE

On the corner—
the daft curly landlord 
clapping to chase 

profusions 
of—avid and stickthin 
leftover finches

wildly
away from a 
crooked tidbit of property—

a shriveling autumn
sketch of 
a crabapple tree—light 

on leaves
and—anyway 

bereft 
of almost all curios—

gently 
eases the ache
in your head

by ordaining 
it—nothing personal.

Friday, November 7, 2014

AT THE CROSSWALK—

Same green purple
gray city pigeon—how filthy! How iridescent!

CALL YOUR MOM

Listen 
here—how 

even between that bullfrog-
necked 
chorus kittycorner 

of not overly conscientious 
Russian red
tuckpointer faces

and one pliant pair—over there
of those 
daubed overalls swallowing

the squirrelly majority 
of a chipped-
thumbnail-frail

Southside Irish housepainter—
there's

simply no hard 
and fast 
way—to win a domestic argument.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

BLACK MASS

First—you need
coffee—
steam-
sighing quick but 

discreetly from smart 
white cups
of 
baked earth enameled,

which sit nested
cleanly—on equally
simple but
pretty glossed saucers

atop blank public counters,
perfectly level—
that blush at intervals 
according

to the equally spaced soft and and slow-
wheeling purr and shimmer—
of several canny overhead
ceiling fan/Edison 
lightbulb combination fixtures,

which background
adroitly and with 
good mercy—the morning's manageable smatter 
of sallow discolored faces 
of customers;

then—after

that—you can 
finally 
write 

something 
clever.

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

UNCULTIVATED

It's like recalling—so many 
spindly  
rust colored cords of

ivy—still clinging

hard
and huge and 
prodigiously

rudely—
to any old tough 
brick wall in 
Chicago in early fall;

I mean—how it rather 
has to be

the whole thing

that's the poem—
at the moment

you 
first chance
and look at it at all—and that's not all

but it wasprobably
everything.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

STICKY UPY

Get a load
of this killer hair—in the morning, Kate
in our over-

crowded mirror
that's still—a little 
humid probably from the night before;

a short little chestnut nest—swept 
up—for years now, I'd guess—just so I can 
see what's coming—and know

that although it's definitely
nothing too sporty—
I feel

it still suits me
well—in my chosen pursuit
as your ideal 

dodgeball rival—always

the next 
to last one standing—and always 
looking out for you.

Monday, November 3, 2014

REMEMBER DEATH

Even 
fruit bowls—

full 
because everywhere—there

used 
to be ashtrays—on all the same tables.

HOT POTATOES

The other day 
with cold train
of barbed gray rain—November came and 

it was suddenly—quick! never mind
the old-
time war

between—the prepared stuff 
and the raw.

Countryfulls
of kitchen 
ovens and their clocks—I bet

the whole 
midwest—and Kate and I 
and even the dog 
not excepted!—yes, all seemed
to jump—just like that

and then
fall back—intent

on a similar 
but much 
more comfortable plot—an admittedly more

pillowy—mashup between 
what's hard 
and what's soft;

because nothing's like 
a chilly red sun
setting on your first teapot

to make it dawn—
everything's already 
pretty 

cooked—
as its likely ever 
going to get,

but most things are only 
tough—until you decide make them warm 
or wet 

or both—for just a little 
bit 
and then—they're not.