Balk

If you can stroll into my bedroom
of walls covered with very cool
maps and not look at a single one
what will we be fucking about?
You're with some nerdy weirdo
and I some flatlined numbskull
who won't know north from south.


Of Love and Charmin

Since Jesus, since Juliet,
love is a mad dog
rabid for each ism,
swallowing some whole,
torturing some for
the rest of our lives.
In this case, what it's
come down to is your
buying that expensive,
non-recycled toilet paper.


Reply to Your Question, as Politely as I Can Manage

The poems were hit-or-miss
and badly needed editing.
I used to read it, though,
because we shared a job
and because you said it would
be my publishing house too.
Now only one of those three
situations still pertains.


An Upstanding Establishment

“Dick Hertz, Dick Hertz,
and Connie Lingus, Connie Lingus,
your tables are ready.”

The new hostess blares
away on the PA system
and everyone else has their laugh.

Welcome to the restaurant business.

Over here, the head waiter
is burying every third check
and keeping the cash.

Over here, the bartender
is swallowing every third pour
and getting smashed.

In the back, the grill-man
is recycling unfinished steaks
as beef kebabs,

and the prep staff trims
the mold off bargain basement
blocks of cheddar.

The sommelier passes out
her business card
with a unblushing wink,

the waitress in the lounge
asks the Texan businessmen,
'Do you cocks want some tail?'

All kinds of magic and mischief
are made here, it's pretty much
anything goes, name your poison.

Cash is king. At one end of the bar
is the chief of police, at the other
the Monsignor and his chippie.

Paeon Peon Paean

Peons work hard!
People, say thanks!
They grow the corn!


Ivan Bashriu became famous
for his marvelous paeans
to the writing of Andre Volez,
which was otherwise ignored.
In First Heaven, the situation
reversed; and so it continues.


fucking tree

the 90-foot tree
is dead

for reasons of its
own died

didn't tell anyone
or leave

any sign of why
or how

and I'm angry
because now

I have to come up
with a lot of cash

to take it down
before it falls

on someone's
house

and the group of
rhododendron

at its feet will be
destroyed

because it
just selfishly died


ah, the crocuses
but only crocuses
no crested iris, snowdrops or chionodoxa

the crocuses alone
can harbing spring just fine

but seem so slight
to have that weight
on their shoulders alone


shahrazad

please get up
off the floor

don't grovel
for what's yours

there are words
you can speak

whose truth
is ready now

to pull the carpet
out from under

that musnud


new world order 21

canadia kicks
russia's butt
and medvedev
nixes his trip
to vancouver
vowing bear
heads will roll

while back in
the u.s. of a.
hand-wringing
over poor
lindsey jacobellis
snowboarding
off the course

leads straight to
president obama
calling for
the end to sports
as we know them
and a change
to something

more like how his
daughters' playmates
and the bankers
skiing wall street
always get to
take home gold
no matter what

Those Shabby Regulars

So this small group of
bored professional poets
gets together once a
week at the coffee-shop

and talk about the jobs
they used to have before
they “sold”: one waitress,
one grade-school teacher,
two small-paper reporters.

After the pie plates are
cleared and cups refilled,
they turn to “big moments
vs. small moments.”


The End of Life as We Knew It

Yeah, some had swelled heads

Oh look! Yeah! Can't you still see
the traces of cherry-red paint?

and some the opposite

Do I smell? Am I dirty? Bacteria-ridden?

but for the most part we were pretty chill,
swapped stories, laughed a lot

She tried to clip me with the kitchen
scissors! Look at this shit!

until this one sharp crescent said

We've suffered loss!
We are not longer part of living bodies!

Whoa. Wait. Well,
the whole tenor of the place changed.

We didn't die when we were clipped!
We died when we extended from the cuticle!

No, you're full of shit! The nail, like hair,
was never animate! We're exactly like this
motherfucking plastic!

Then where did that thought itself come from?

It was like the Theologians' ring of hell.

Who cares? I said. Let's tell some jokes!
Knock back some brews!

Stick our heads in the sand? Denial?

No! I said. I'm not denying! Yes, we all were
once attached to the end of some finger! OK?

Or toe!

Or toe! Yes, mea culpa too for that! But
who the fuck cares? Can't we have fun now?

You're being fatalistic!

What? You think you can get reattached?

Let's not just scoff at the idea! Stranger
shit has happened!

Baby, deal with it! You're the one in denial!
You're a clipping, plain and simple! Put you
back on the rest of the nail, and next thing
you'll be whining for the eponychium!

Dude, if lying in a landfill shouting at each other
over steaming piles of garbage is your idea of
the perfect existence, more power to you!
But I have a dream of something better! Okay?

And it just sort of all went downhill from there,
day by day, each one a little worse than the last.


This little guy
works really
hard every day
to have fun.

It's not easy,
but if you give
it your all and
you know how

to push when
things need
to be pushed,
you can have

a pretty high
success level,
although it can
be draining.


taste

read five more poets
tonight and they all
sucked

somebody likes them
i know
and sees what i don't

like the loving wife of
that asshole
down the block

or the academy award
voters who
picked sandra bullock

That wind can blow
whenever and wherever
it wants to

and anyone
who doesn't like it
can go indoors

and just listen

to the sweep of trees
windowpanes rattling
and their own desire.


resident v. city hall

the new garage roof
put on illegally
looks great

and it's hard to see
the harm we did
in doing it

admittedly we didn't
file forms or pay
the fees

to file forms

that are the file clerk
and cashier's
livelihood

the life blood of
good governance

but

it is such a nice roof
and the bicycles
stay dry now

i don't know...call me
a what? it seemed
like such a big

decision at the time


Little Gray Poets

When the cellar floods
the mice come upstairs
and run in circles under
the dining room table

as if remonstrating with
us for letting leaves
clog up the roof gutters
and putting them out so.

It's cute how naive they
are vigorously expressing
themselves like this as
we put out the snaptraps.


lazy poem with pretzels

over there on my new desk
are my notes for a new poem.
I can't remember at all what
it's about and I'm too lazy
to go look. so here we are.

instead I can offer you some
of these pretzels or a draught
of my Coke Zero. I could
scootch over and let you sit
beside me. we may well nap.

no? let me try to remember
then. I jotted them down just
before I ran to pick up Stevie
from his best friend's house—
jotted them down lest I did

forget them. I recall leaving the
last word of the first line blank.
it was about five lines. not too
exciting but it had possibilities.
okay I do have to go look now.

when I imagine being a _____,
I imagine living in a skin that
is not tight but comfortable,
almost like you don't really
feel it containing you at all

this was slated to be narrated
by an animal I imagined to have
uncomfortably tight skin, maybe
an eft or a hippo. my point was
that animals may not be especially

comfortable, maybe live in a state
of constant irritation or bother
that natural selection doesn't care
about too much. maybe a walrus's
tusks are as painful as they look.

it could actually be a series. now,
though, this is what it is. a little
conversation while I'm chillaxing.
not exciting. no real possibilities.
but everything doesn't have to be.


Hippo Hippocrates

I can't say too much good
about the lion,
but I envy its skin.
It looks so comfortable,
it's hard to imagine
how it holds its content in,
but it does.

And how an ostrich
flaunts the lightness
of its head,
a giraffe
the spryness of its teeth
and tongue,
an impala, twinkletoes!

Throw any of them
in the river
and say Browse,
cruise around, survive—
then no, I wouldn't change
a thing about my kind;
but still, I wouldn't mind

a moment in their minds,
just long enough
to learn if
their skin, head, feet, teeth
ache anything like ours do,
or if their discomforts
are species specific.

endangered species bullshit

bluefin
if you want to be safe
re-color your fins red

polar bears
just pole down to Antarctica

God
helps those who help themselves

and God
we sure do


Wish Come True

At midnight my coach
reverts to a pumpkin,
my ball-gown to tatters
and everything to shit

but it's only eleven now
and I'm going to keep
dancing with you right
to the stroke of twelve.

There I'll be, a servant
in your astonished arms
and everyone aghast
at the cheeky deception

but if you had wanted
an imperial princess all
you had to do was snap
your fingers.


Long Boring Nuthatch Story (Which At Least I Got Down to One Page)

A bunch of my big old rhododendrons died.
One day, a guy was walking around in them
and I went out and asked him who he was.
He said the neighbor
had hired him to treat the rhododendrons
and he was applying an insecticide
for rhododendron borers.
He showed me their frass.
I told him to take his insecticide
and please stay off my property.

I read up on these borers.
I learned that nuthatches eat them.
I had never seen nuthatches here.
I researched nuthatch birdhouses
and my young son helped me build
and nail two of them up.

A couple years pass,
half the rhododendrons are dead
and I'm sitting on the front stoop
keeping my little guy company
while he scans the neighborhood
for distractions from his homework.
He says, “Look, dad,”
and points at the street-side maple.
A pair of birds scamper down its trunk.
One ducks into a knothole.
“Uh oh,” he says. “Squirrels live in there.”
The bird hightails back out.

Little guy runs inside to get the Peterson's Guide.
I'm so pleased he's interested.
He tries to find a picture of the bird.
I look too. Then, there it is.
The white-breasted nuthatch.

We spot them again
on the beech near the house.
One pops into a knothole there
where I know squirrels also live,
and pops back out. At this point
they're 10 feet from the birdhouses,
15 feet from the rhododendron.
"Dad," little guy says.


my balls

shrink
and expand

putty
in your hands

A brief notice about something that went well in the public education system

We met on Sixties Hippie Day.
The Vice Principal was Grace Slick,
the Reading Specialist Jimi Hendrix,
the Social Worker one of the mamas
from The Mamas & the Papas—
“the skinny one,” she said.
It was the sweetest meeting, a love fest.
They all thought the world of my daughter
and we agreed about what to do next.


the giant frozen into the lake

the blades
of your skates

trace
figure eights

around my
breasts

and the ice
sheet cracks

but doesn't
break

as I crane
my face

to try to
catch a look.

you stop
to listen

and for that
moment

I feel
recognized.

my heart-
beat quickens

and a whale-
like song

fills up the
glacial basin,

awing you.
I'm right here

underneath
your feet

but the song
you hear

unlocked
comes from

that very
distant year

when all
the giants

lay down in
the great gale.


The Last Giant Standing

What makes anyone think
smaller stature is the key
to weathering an ice age,
and what if it isn't?
It all seems like superstition,
a mass-extinction death-wish
based on some old witch
and a roll of mammoth teeth:
Let's lay down and die
so that the mini people
have a chance to survive?
It's been a year since I have
run across a male of my kind
but if I ever do again,
I'm going to try to breed.

In the meantime, I will hide.
The little people's mass hysteria
has overwhelmed little brains
and they're intent on hunting
down the last of us, as if
we brought the snow and ice.
Out with the old, in with the new
is now the desperate mantra.
The saber-tooth, the mastodon,
the cave bears, giant sloths,
Neanderthals...the whole Earth
downsizing, a fauna of mice
in the making!

I don't want to be a Luddite,
don't want to stand in the way
of progress, and I will bow
to the inevitable, whatever
it is, when that time comes.
The gale is strong and bitter
and, frankly, laying down this life
will probably be a relief.
I wish the little people well.
But I do want somebody to know
that at least one of us
asked questions, one of us
stood for rationality.


MARCH 21, 2010

Your steady hand
prevails again,
unshaken by
skeptic and critic,
friends demanding
a changed course.

But you are no
riverboat gambler,
the nation is as one
of your daughters,
calm and steady is
how you will raise it.


nobody

nobody
dares
to die
near me

i'll smack
the living
daylights
out of
them
for just
skipping
one beat

there's
an old
saying

about
a stitch
in time

it's true
as far as
it goes

but it
don't
go far
enough

raptors fill the skies
and war the valleys.
seas and winds rise.
diseases bloom in
shell-shocked soil.

some of us look for
the second coming,
others are booking
passage off-planet,
while another party
butcher each other
as if there were no
tomorrow.

everyone knew this
was coming sooner
or later but no one
was terribly afraid.

the elements leapt
and raptors smiled.
viruses, microbes,
apocalypts, elitists
and barbarians all
saw opportunities.


next age prayer

we've had you
bottled up 200
generations
now

given the right
of way
to civilization's
parade

but that stage
is over
now
we can't get any

more
civilized on this
budget
so come on out

old hairy genie
with a big club

kick some butt
and lead us

from this age
into our next


Greta L. Ballinger, 59

   Greta L. Ballinger, the last woman known to have given birth vaginally in the United States (to a girl, Rose Ann Ballinger, in 2026), died on Sunday from complications from uterine cancer.
   A native of Baltimore, Maryland, Ms. Ballinger campaigned stridently against the Barbarian Birth Act, which first criminalized vaginal birth in 2021. Her sensational trial, conviction and incarceration in 2028 are credited with reducing the barbarian birth rate in the United States from just over 1% to today's estimate of less than .0001%.
   President Dr. Jules Parsigian issued a brief statement through Press Secretary Dr. Ali McGomery, lamenting Ms. Ballinger's death but declaring that “her passage removes us one more step from the caves of our savage past” and renewing his call for “jihad by any means necessary against the perpetuation and even the defense of this barbarian practice in many backward areas around the globe.”
   Ms. Ballinger is survived by two grandchildren, William Ballinger Lopez and Annie V. Ballinger, both of Taos, New Mexico. Her daughter Rose Ann Ballinger took her own life in 2051 — the result, medical authorities believe, of both psychological and physical trauma stemming from the violent and unsanitary nature of barbarian birth.


Out-weighed Costs

Note: When we first interspeciated, pure human and dolphin each had a laundry list of fears and philosophical objections, which gradually washed away with time and tide. Now there is little conflict or regret; benefits clearly outweigh the costs. There is such a comfortable consensus that the time has come to acknowledge those outweighed costs.

The snap of a twig underfoot.
 Each time I read about one, it is almost as if I remember—
 the sound so sharp and clear.
 Old books are graveyards of ghosts like that, and they hurt.

The astonishment of learning
 that humans who swam so badly could carry on a conversation—
 and other exhilarating surprises.
 We seem to know too much now to ever really be astonished.

The avarice for more cojoining.
 Already, after only 200 years, people want to be able to roll
 into interspeciation boutiques
 and just enhance themselves—aggrandize themselves—more.


Mole-Rat

Your trunk looks like a larva,
your hands like those of a fetus,
your ears like intubations,
eyes scabbed-over pimples,
and...not a nose but a huge
city of cancerous pink moles
that has been bombed out
by everything the Luftwaffe had.
You don't look happy, dude,
but you were not made to be seen,
not made to ever come to light.
Go back in your hole.
Go back to the dark
where you are Clark Gable
and Tigger all rolled into one.


Walk to the White House

Several surprising things.

We'd never walked to the White House before,
but instead of looking for a restaurant, we did.

It was late on a Friday afternoon
and no one but no one was there.
At the back fence there was one young cop
leaning on his car and staring into space,
and three vivacious 20-year-olds who told
us that this modest 2-storey building was,
indeed, the back side of the White House.

All the windows looked empty. Not a soul
on the lawn or the walks. We could have
hit the windows with a well-thrown rock,
pulled out pistols or created some havoc
any one of a number of ways, and
it seemed like we were welcome to try it.

From the front the house was grander—
3 or 4 storeys tall, and quite a distance
from the fences. On the great lawn was
a lonely patch dug up for vegetables,
and some of the gardening right at the edge
was disgraceful—little heaps of waste dirt
and dead vegetation. No security there either,
but maybe a dozen foreign tourists taking
pictures, making it very difficult to walk by.

At the center of the fence, waist high,
a little metal button on a little metal box
attached to a rusted metal tube that went
into the ground: “Welcome to the White House.
Push Button”! I hesitated and then pushed it.
How very Through the Looking Glass!
Absolutely nothing happened.

No magic.
No homeland security.
No participatory democracy.
Just somebody's house who didn't seem
to be in.