AN ENDING—

And—just before 
she left, Old April 
turned, welled-

up 
a little, 
bit and said—oh blessed!

be these kind 
and low 
and scrawny brown pine branches;

and ever
may they grow still 
taller, healthy and well-
appointed kelly here without me!—before 

anointing them
each 
so delicately— 
with the very last drops of her

own personal 
oracular treasure- 

trove of
leftover rainwater.

SERMON ON THE LAWN

God's just the most colorful
name we've 

got going—
for impossibly! 

far afield 
events—in that one single 

precious and still-
tractable 

first moment 
after their happening—like 

when you just blinked
you tired afternoon 

eyes once
back there—and afterwards 

gradually 
coaxed each 

of your pupils 
into acknowledging  

there were—
absolutely!

dandelions everywhere.

FEATURE ATTRACTION

Seduced—and even a little
blinded

by a cloud-
shy 
but diamond
white 
advertisement for sunlight—I am suddenly 

thoroughly confused—as to
which one 

I'm even 
out here in April's
bristling open-air 
theater watching for—

that lusty full-
color motion picture 
of bees 
buzzing and sweet pink
wind stirring up wide- 
smiling marzipan tulips set to music?—Or those

considerably under-
exposed—but even
more tantalizing 

trailers of quiet
slender—and ever-

present
tense moments just before?

FIREBOMBING

I know this is barely 
more than a wanton 

and crude 
circumlocution—but really 

nothing 
knocks you over faster

when you're 
pushing—grim and 

windblown—past 
another stiff parapet 

of noon gloom 
than—basically anything!

buffeted towards you
so aggressively 

fried-
up hot—and wafting 

cruelly from their guileful 
stainless 

casings-
full of peanut oil.

FORTISSISSISSIMO!

The most 

poetic instrument

of them all

there—in the whole 

of the impossibly gleaming

gold orchestra hall

has actually 

got to be—those hopeless-

ly clunky 

gargantuan round 

and 

bronze-ugly tympani!

Nothing else in sight

they could play

quite makes an emphatic 

racket like that;

and nothing more delightful

I could 

possibly write—

would ever come across so uncouthly  

illimitable—

and matter of fact!

WAXED

Once I felt
so hungry—staring 

down the table
at a pretty gala—

my hunger
caved

and swallowed
itself

and emptiness—
poured forth instead.

Then I
knew—that redness

was real;

that the roundness
and the gloss were too.

The only thing
that wasn't—was the realness 

of that apple.

CONTRAST RATIO

Balancing tricky 
in her red 
light rearview—

the bushy frazzled 
apparition of 

a realistic 
woman's head—

with one 
hand 
raised and repeatedly 

lashing
quick mascara—simultaneously manages

to wander 
back 
behind her and offer—

a little shade
to your 
own light impatience!

GENTRY

Even the slick

native 

riverfront waterfowl

ordinarily heedless 

iridescent arrows 

that advertise freshly each morning  

their same old 

bold claims 

on the whole 

of the long

skinny 

tall 

slanted Kingsbury corridor—

seem more 

than a little

caught-

up in our latest development—

this mad 

and 

gluttonous rush for something 

so undigestible—

called free parking.

BAUDRILLARD SATISFIED

Up all night 

drinking 

thunder-

cloud water—for better or 

worse—the grass 

in the morning 

looks so Crayola-

Green to me.

DEATH OF A TREE

Over and over
again—to your own

darkly folded-
up and 

stiff self
you'll try muttering

something
a little snappier

like—time is so huge!
and so 

vast! and 
so giant—and you'll 
eventually feel

the fine province 
of your own
mentality expanding—

like you could spread 
your hardening 

hands wide
and grab hold of 
bold lots of it!—suddenly;

without ever even 
coming close 
to exhausting a stitch of it.

Only—by the late afternoon
on which any 
of that happens

you may come
to be bent 
by just such a gracious

and soft realization—
that you don't really have

to keep reaching
for the 
inexhaustible,  

let alone continue 
to wear 
such a stiflingly 

unlimited—
crown of it anymore.

FORMER LANDSCAPE

Foggy toasted

leaves of oolong—yes 

I know! you're such

a curious—

but generous

antithesis—to fresh deserted hills of Monday 

afternoon rainclothes!

CHEAP TRICKS

Silence all! And if
you please—stand 
back folks! and make 

a little 
rarefied
space

for the crazy-
wise rambling 
and fantastical liturgy

of one little divinely-
inspired 
Merlin of a bird—

who's perched tough 
and whistling
feverishly, conjuring- 

up bits of those
sweet shoots
of the good white stuff! 

(the kind 
all your best warmweather
concoctions require!)—out

from somewhere 
just underneath himself
on the brambly magnolia bush

(the one that he alone!
appears 
to sit so 

completely 
on top of)—
without even

so much
as
consulting the missal book!

ECUMENICAL

Easy going

Easter 

Sunday—after 

dusk the bulging public 

park air—

sweet with marijuana.

FOLD AND TEAR THIS STUB ALONG PERFORATION

Here's your handy portable 

model of how 

now—after 

just one 

more specific reinterpretation

things

are not really 

things—they're just processes.

Even your intense!

motivation

to follow 

these directions—was much less 

a thought—

than a 

realization.

A STRANGE TRIANGLE

Once—and still
whenever 
I'm feeling 

at least 
a little bit—less analytic;
I remember 

to keep 
on fostering
each of all three of you—

famously tall and 
curiously cornmeal- 
brown waterfowl—and

ahistorically small 
and eager floppy
eared dinosaur!—and

of course grace-
fully elongated—yet narrow
as ever

arcane and
unaccountable—furry hot-
dog of a 

third thing—
that nonetheless 
so very 

right and quite 
soundly—
sleeps nestled 

perfectly at home 
in the space 
between its two others

and neatly keeps
the whole  
absurd thing—bound together.

BLUSTERY ANTHROPOMORPHISM

The wind's 
so
huge this 
after-

noon—I bet

even 
that fat
hawk 
who looks all perfect-

ly stuck
up 
there's

like—what?
the fuck.

TELLTALE

Workaday- 
grey 
goose—you can't

fool me! Your drab
and 
seemingly

recondite 
cipher 
of color—cannot disguise

what your 
crook 
of a body's sly shimmy

betrays
so 
plainly—out here

in the tardy 
blush 
of florid sun—

a barely! contained
wellspring
of sanguine jubilation

at the prospect
of 
yet another 

easy post-rain 
sidewalk 
buffet of dried worm guts!

A LIFT FOR KATE

Cloud-
hidden little

katy-
did of a kid—your secret 

kind
of courage 

flies just 
so 
much higher!

and seems quite a bit 
older—
than any

idea 
you could possibly 

have where you're at;

as if it somehow 
prefigures you—
the way that 

all of the prettiest 
men
throughout history

painting 
all of the 
most exquisite 

stars in existence—could only 
have presupposed

a sky like theirs
becoming yours.

PLAZA

April 15—is something 
even 

less than a 
fiction—to the expressionless

constellation 
of greencrested 

mallard drakes—
suspended

motionless 
in the soft

and small
bowl of sky reflecting;

the one they 
dug-

out—in front 
of this 

equatorial sand- 
colored 

H&R Block.

SACRAMENTAL IMAGINATION

Consummately chalk-
green 

and arcane
sidewalk penny—I wonder

like any good
Catholic 

kid 
would as I

pass you 
by—what is your value?

METASTASIS

Cruel and uncontrolled 
proliferation 

of April wind-
swept 

clouds—
compounded 

by 
ever- 
increasingly-

grayer 
and 
larger and coldthundering 

cloud 
after 
cloud after 
cloud 
after cloud—may be impacting

the round and 
the sweet-
tempered little red

robins—sending them 
all darting 

off for shelter 
somewhere—or other 
unseen across this soggy old churchyard;

but—for better

or 
otherwise—it seems that

weather
is weather is
weather is weather!

to the hulking 
pair
of gaunt still American

black crows—
hunched 
and on guard for

whatever—up there
in the
jagged oak limbs.

PERFORATIONS

That blameless-

ly 

fast rushing

blue sky 

flash-

flood

of gut-trembling

and heart-

pumping radio—so zealously

catapulted

forth from those

green-

light starved car

windows 

jackhammered-down!

careering in celebration 

through my

tree punctured street;

just cannot

seem 

to reach 

out and—animate

my punchy 

April mind

quite like the furtive 

and

intimate sound—

of one

or two maybe—black 

and red-

mantled 

woodpeckers' 

soft cautious

and easy-

listening pinging

somewhere–off-

hand—

on a neighbor's old evergreen.

RECIPE FOR GOOD GRAY

Fold the fast 
sharp pinching

piccolo cries—

of a few
dappled gulls from across 

the slate 
lot—of postwinter 

macerated Styrofoam
convenience 

store cup-
dusted concrete—

quickly 
into the hot doughy 
ferment 

of Gregorian 
Chant that should by now currently

be ballooning up 
thick-
ly around your wet April 

bowl 
of a head—and keep

stirring the whole mass 
around vigorously

to the tune of that 
pitch-
white and

wiseacre wind—
'til it all 

starts 
to 
curdle

and 
the 
curdles 

start 
to 
clot—

and don't look
now—but just 

what have you got?

STRAY

Their grey 
faces may whisper—as if
they're so sure

words—like
unclean
or
absurd!

when they chance
to glace
through dark and weathered 

indigo glass 
during service
to vaguely—see you out here
so careless;

glinting wet 
with raw bits
of early spring 
sun puddles streaking your wiry back

and just so 
unnervingly non-
specifically—nosing around

the terrible lawn 
that surrounds this little austere 
grid of such old and 
good pissing rocks 

for the grubbiest snacks,
the most pungent
of plots,
and just—digging! so fiercely

away in the bulk
of the mulch 
that they're all scared 
pretty stiff of.

But don't be deterred!
and never 

let up! your search
little 
charitable friend;

for you alone apprehend 
so lightly! 
without that heavy 
pall of understanding

that after you leave 
the tolls
of the loud dark iron behind,

out here—
its all so faint-
ly cordial,

so crudely  
available 
for simple consecration!

that it's clearly
just another—and a rather 
much more 

humane 
and—catholic kind!
of church.

MAN AND NATURE WORKING OUT TOGETHER

Running hard
into

and out of—
precious noonday

shocks 
of electric

blue shade—
thrown 

down—so gracious!

on the stubbly
grass path
from such a lovely

slanted 
skinny and

mossed-
over 
array of endless-

ly repeating—shitty 
above-

ground power lines.

ALLERGIC REACTION

Admittedly—it does feel
a little
bit decadent

and sort of
sumptuously comfortable

by mid-April—
to simply walk

to work 
cultivating 
in your own—nonetheless 

clogged 
and tight wheezing breast—this 
pure state 

of simple
or
breezy admiration—

the kind 
with absolutely 
none of that sticky 

envy stuff attached—

for those
increasingly congested
and 

quickening 
sounds

of commuter path 
birds
that abound these warmer mornings.

That is
to say—

it all just strikes you 
as an awful
bit tougher of a slog than yours;

a much 
harder gig!

not to mention
such 
constant pressure! 

to wind- 
up
on display out here daily

and—continuously
expected to keep re-

inhaling 
and bursting! 

over and 
over
again—into the goddamn

prettiest—
song you ever heard.

HOLLOW

Dark 
and bare 

and somehow
larger! than rightly

seems plausible
ancient 

oak tree—could it be you?

or rather—
your stiff and 
tightwound thousands

of boney slate gray 
colored fingers—so

tired! and spread
far and looking so desperate-
ly

starving— 
for the still-
absent honeyed 

blush of our only
reluctant 
pale yellow star—?

Could it rest 
alone

on them?
straining—so hard 
to hold

up this massive 
and pressing-

down 
hard 
upon the landscape—

iron-
colored April sky?

PANOPLY

A simple—but effective 

smudge

of shadow-black 

crescents bobbing

up 

and down in soft

unison

parade formation—receding 

there

against the warmish

bulging

grey of city streetwash 

and sky

so gently 

clotted-over—

charmingly

ameliorates—or even better

the latest pelting 

shock—

of dark hard April rain.

CONCEPTS

All aspiring young 
milder weather poem 
and prose writers

are herein advised 
to take 
special notice—of how

even in the innocent 
and
strawyellow dawn 

of this as-yet 
unpolluted
promise of the new virgin

season—there gestates
something 

pretty dirty—
in the shy furtive way 
in which a few
more green shocks

of would-
be tulips 

and crocuses 
exist
than could be caught hocking-

up their tiniest bulbs—here
at this same 
muddy time and place yesterday;

and—more importantly

of just 
how exquisitely this consideration
constitutes

indisputable proof—that virginity

and some other word
you'll be tempted
to invoke

like chastity—stand

about as far apart 
from each 
other—semantically

as formal spring
from raw
unfettered springtime. 

WATERLOG

Kathryn—I'm more than
a little bit

ashamed
to admit—that it

feels almost too easy

and appropriate 
to miss

you so 
formally while it 

keeps weeping—such heavy
soft

buckets as this one—

THIS IS WILD—

but—for a minute

or more 

back there

sitting down blind-

eyed and tallish

I actually felt

at least

half like a tree—

mostly

in so far as—I had absolutely

no hands

and hence

couldn't even pretend

to apprehend

the world

around me like that.

What a relief!

not to 

reach to be 

part of it—

to be 

in my dumb place

and to know it

as such—I mean, er

no 

not 

at all like that—but

yes, I guess 

you really

kind of 

had to be there—

MAN AND NATURE WORKING TOGETHER

Rest assured—

exactly

such and so 

many

reams 

of magnificent 

foliage—

have been ordered

to beautify

this manufacturing 

district's prodigious 

square footage.

THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA

round-breasted 
robin,
so much

larger
than the rest—

all of your late-
in-coming 
ravenous brothers 

and sisters are
are stick-
thin and needling

around here—for a cheap little 
bit of fresh 
hope in hard moss.

How is it?—that you 
alone
hold this old bit

of dinosaur knowledge—
that springtime 

is not 
actually—anything 
like a time

you arrive at—but actually, 
just always

an eternal-
ly 
rotating 

spot—reoccurring!

CACHET

Oh pale 

shy and far-feeling

circle of sun—there 

are days

when you strike one 

as little

more than just 

painted-on—

seeming to 

while so 

abstrusely away 

on this 

two dimensional drop-

ceiling of heaven 

with no real 

immediate

pull of your own—

your mauve-

colored morning 

light clapped

dimly up in thick 

clots of grey 

pigments—in fact

it's like 

you're only 

last-minute—pinned up

or plastered 

to the set—simply

for the sake 

of day-

to-day

continuity.