Poetry; Where Pigeons Dare

A gospel space
an aching mouth dehydrated of sun
but clear as rain pastored air.

The sleeping hand of another hard-
luck god heavy as a feather
and awkward as footsteps

in sand. Another mortar sighs tactless,
and pinches horizon line
to twilight pink and crying.

*

People are not so far removed
from their bed spreads. Falling asleep
upside down and so so loudly -- that thinness.
Day dreams falling
down the stairs; trees
a rusting dumpster. This time of year
is a boring heart beat.

*

The poet enjoys a vodka tonic at Edinburg Castle
while watching a garage
band. He considers lyrics. He considers no one
else considers lyrics.

He considers the eye shadow on the girl
working behind the bar
a foggy August
sunrise off the coast of Maine.

Someone should write that down
on a napkin and slip it to her. Make it happen,
y’know? or blow out
the birthday candles.

*

Toothpicks on fire
may be the best way to put it. Look
directly at the sun until the clouds turn
all loosely stitched paper
plates. There will be apples drawn.
Dollar bills crumpled and painted
into the fence posts. Dollar bills
as thin as the music
we exchange them for.

*

Everyone is a rock star
in the San Francisco saturday
night. The poet enjoys rock and roll.
Everyone enjoys rock
and roll. The singers mustache
is trimmed to add
some blue collar to his $200
shirt. He and the poet
are both dressed up; only the poet
has nowhere to go. Amber fields
graying a youth bonfire
with vague values.
America is a gut feeling.

*

There is typeface behind the playing
card sky. Dinner
a checkerboard of cigarette smoke
just below the poverty line. Broken
mugs across the floor
don’t matter
without milk or juice,
and wine can be drunk
from the bottle. Sobriety
hung from belt loops.

*

Dance bare ankled
in the intersections where
asphalt meets
dirt. The poet doesn’t
dance, he muses. No one
considers the poet. He is just
another handlebar mustacheless guy
remembering he was Frank O’Hara
in a previous life.

*

Someday driving sleeveless
(pencil shade teeth and clouds)

down a quiet spent highway
small in the turning hills.

Drumming dry gin December on
the steering wheel, nothing,

breathing, simple the ocean’s hairless
arms. Faces somewhere, humble,

wandering hipless
little writing
on the lonesome dashboard.