Sunday, March 29, 2009

old school, cold war

Peach pits sat in your lungs, your kidneys lingered.

And you were unlettered,
you could never read or write back to my letters.

Thumbing from your friends,
you skinny-legged child of bums and guns,
you never knew when you were wanted.

Sleeves too wide,
you eyed the hammer and sickle,
cocked the pistol,
let your fingers win it.

(a rewrite of this)

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

I tossed a rock onto the sand.

The moment it left my hand

I gave it up. It made no splashes,
settled before the crashes,

but when the sparkling water rose
my pebble changed Neptune's flows.

We trip gods with our crumbs.
The sea is moved by a slip of the thumb.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

The waiting is over.

This is hilarious....
and probably what my life will be in about nine months.

Sunday, March 08, 2009

paul newman is dead


"Pick a color: Red, blue, orange, green."

"Blue," said Diane.

"B-L-U-E. Pick a number: one, two, three, four."

"One," said Diane.

"One." The cootie catcher's mouth moved sideways, like a shark.

"Pick a number: five, six, seven, eight."

"Seven," said Diane.

Woody opened the flap. "You will meet the love of your life," he read.


Woody shrugged.

"Cool," said Diane. She popped a bubble of gum. The mole on her shoulder was still intact, large and fascinating.


Gabo is alive. He wakes up every morning and has coffee and takes a siesta every afternoon in his hammock and looks at his typewriter every evening with a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand. He is thoughtful. He has more than eighty years of wrinkly experience inside him. He thinks in lyrical Spanish.


On the last day of her life, Sylvia put the butter back into the fridge and she realized that by the time the butter hardened again, in the cold of the fridge, she would be dead.


More than once Davie looked in the mirror and thought that he probably had Down's Syndrome. Probably no one had told him because they were embarassed, and because they wanted to protect him. Whenever Davie got a bad grade on his math test, or failed an art assignment (an art assignment!), or tried to do the English reading and watched the words turn into Pacman and the little ghosts and blobs, he thought it was probably his Down's acting up again.

He would practice widening his eyes, practice straightening up his smile. Standing tall.

In later years, seeing himself on television, orange hair and creased face, he often wondered about that secret. Perhaps it had never manifested because no one had believed in it enough. Perhaps it was lurking in his system, like TB, waiting to strike when his defenses were down.

That was not at all how it worked, but Davie thought it anyway.


One day, Dakota will go to prom with a boy who will slide a corsage onto her wrist and smile for the pictures that both of their parents are taking. Or maybe she will go with a group of friends, and they'll go out for Thai beforehand and then all flock to the bathroom to redo their lipstick in the mirror.

One day Dakota will be at Long's buying toothbrushes, concealer, and disposable cutlery, and somebody will recognize her and she will probably have to sign their receipt, she will probably have to smile for a picture taken with somebody's cell phone, a picture that will come out blurry.