swimming trunks

hotcake foreheads
the beads on my brow
sweat lodge under arms

salt lick of a sky
counting gulls to sleep
on a colorful towel

the sand on that fat man’s ass
blows free as he stands
getting into our eyes

sprinkling our sandwiches
the fat man’s name
is probably Sanders, I mutter

no, you shut up
the gulls are laughing
they think it’s funny

she rolls her eyes
then squints them tight
fat man ass-sand

is everywhere now
the scent of his suntan oil
in our noses

the grit crunches as we chew
it was your idea to
have lunch in the dirt

your idea of the ocean
replenishing some essential
minerals in this maladapted

asthma-ward nurse uniform
of a relationship long ago fallen
ill watching late night TV

oh fuck all, give Sanders
the rest of this chicken salad
and let’s just go

she’s getting angry
why must we always fight
at the beach?

Solar

I can believe what I see
if I can believe that I’m seeing it,
but the sun is too much
the work-a-day schmo to worship.

I climb over that ridge
in the morning too, and
nobody thinks anything of it.

True, sometimes I’m late.


Image is from a pinhole eclipse viewer that I am still working on, even though the path of totality will not pass directly over this errant human head of mine. It will pass well to the north of me, and godspeed to these heavenly bodies, especially the moon, who will single-handedly blot out the sun and then quietly stand aside as everyone whispers, “oh, solar eclipse!”

Finishes

DISTRESSED FINISH

PEELED OR RUSTED THROUGH

WET THEN DRY THEN WET AGAIN

AGING AS WE SPEAK

GATHERED UP FROM FAR AND WIDE

HEAPED UP IN DISHEVELED STACKS

TEASING AT SOME DEEP MEANING


Photos gathered from junk shops and scrap yards in the Northeast when I was traveling by car there a few years ago. What exactly is the appeal of rusty old things? Do we think we can get a glimpse of the extent of time’s doings? Yet it’s not even a clock-tick in terms of imaginable natural history.

eyeteeth

what take, a guess
your eyes signal something
I am sure I misunderstand (something)

deeply withheld, or lightly held
a joke, a prank maybe
crackling pinwheels, air

confined to the corridors of use
dissatisfaction is endemic
and so they rebel

somewhere in the body
of this dancing dervish this
sometimes lived life

a quiet fever, the curfew
nets a dozen of the little buggers
eyeteeth of our culture

Cloud Prone

your puffed up gaudy display
does not impress me yet
seeing one without
seeing them all
I can wait a day or
a decade (how long have I got?)
and each one of them
belched off your assembly line
is better than the last
and I will withhold my applause
until it's over, or until
I am over

P. surinamensis

Surinam is a comely lass
the greenhouse cockroach from the East
the females of this species need

no male to make a buggy brood
and offspring many she will breed
and in the greenhouse gas

they dwell, and life is good
except in May, his ardor freed
the useless male seems lost, alas


My affection for this creature stems from the fact that they are never seen indoors, like the other roaches that invade my space, but only in garden soil. They have spread from their Indomalayan origins via the export of potted exotics in which they have burrowed into the soil. Populations occur in tropical to temperate climates, and are nearly all female, as is the specimen pictured here, told by the length of her wings. The male has longer wings which cover the entire body. No one is saying whether or not these creatures make whoopee for fun, there being no reproductive need, but for the sake of the males one can hope. They might, in seeking relief from the boredom, turn to sports and alcohol which rarely works out well in the long run and in which case they might just as well disappear from biosphere altogether.