the New Pantagruel

Discovery Channel

My stomach aches – the
play-by-play apocalypse has gotten to me
finally. The sky
makes fizzing noises every time
it fits on the TV screen.
For every 12-year-old in a sarong and
her naked 1-year old son
there might just be an
evil empire waiting patiently
for them to die of cholera - probably not.
More likely, our documentaries
are rising up righteously
in the grip of some collective nausea
turning the stomachs of everyone
they touch.
More likely the littlest
animals will
burrow evilly into our
feet
digging and digging,
frantic as yoga moms:
the same panic animates us all.
We fail in the morning
and picture purposeful baseball bats
smashing the jaws of our enemies
until evening.
Our sinus headaches are metaphors,
as usual,
and we keep reproducing
as if we weren’t given fair warning.
We are in the throes, most likely,
of everything we’ve wished for:
not nothingness, not endless space
and final death but
raging armies
like nothing else but ants
warmly stewing around.

Not War, Exactly

We’re waiting for the second
bomb to blow, because how else can we
sit around
and drink our tropical smoothies?
We’ve been waiting for this
our whole lives, haven’t we? All those
stories about women in fatigues
on the back roads,
all the published letters-home, all
the grain of black’n white gigantic clouds of other people’s homes.
And never saying “bomb” in any way
while in an airport.
Weren’t these the signs of things to come?

So now we meet each other
in town, sit at an outdoor café
because the weather’s nice, and eat
our goat-cheese salads.
In the other countries, the made-for-TV
war-torn countries, the goats are dying off
one by one. We know all this,
it’s in the blueprint of things
unavoidable, sitting there
in the back of our minds
while we eat our salads.

The Mood Today

It was pure self-indulgence
On the subway platform
Behind the sandwich counter
In the delegate’s lounge

All the way through – blank space
Being just that, and dingy at that

     Our wildberry fusion drink,
     Our Swedish pretenses

Hey, yo – said the kid
And punched the white kid
With his bony fist

     Our contract our charter our
     Procession (flag-bearing or not)

While under that, while through, while a traves,
While in blatant disregard we all

When scratch paper when post-it when recycling bin

When metrocard

My friend, you are fixated on the term “uncanny”, when the
drugs are much more of a valid THING
than you think

Think of it: the desert fathers; the desert
treasure hunt; the desert secret; the desert holding itself
out.

You have not broken through
Nor have you smelled it on your fingers

Where would it be but here.

Where metrocard

Show me what you got.

Customer Service on the Line

I am going to be warm whether you like it or not,
You and your customer service voice.
Can you put your feet up can you have a drink can you
Forget about the $4.11?
Give it up and build a little hut from your paper fasteners and abundance of
Scotch tape.
Take the inkjet thingy and
Use it as a pillow,
You’ll dream of bigger buildings with
More stairwells with
More maintenance men taking smoke breaks than you’ve
Ever imagined.
The sky will open up and rain fruit baskets
And delivery guys, the shredder will
Come to life and sing the opposite song.
The sirens will be sirens still but
With a voice this time
And you’ll be pale yellow against the sky
The other slaves will be with you and smiling great bucketfuls
Of very sincere teeth
You’ll be sitting in the sea of office plants, their waxy leaves
Will comfort you
Believe me, it’ll be
All that and much much more.

Native

I hated every minute there,
every brunch served on the cool beach.

my books could sit evilly
by the water
for hours
making my own ears roar.

I would lift my shorts
to my waist every morning,
press my shirt
and sit on the cot
till the early bell.

where was the mind?
the blackboards were a
backdrop for the mimosa branches
leaning heavily in the windows.

I slept badly;
the other students were always shrieking.

The Arcane Knowledge Denied Me Thus Far

The arcane knowledge denied me thus far
was revealed this afternoon on the subway.
If you are let out of work early
and the sunshine is terrific
and the weeds are rampant by the side of the highway
then the jewish girls in their flipflops
on the subway
will chatter on and on
not noticing the other
beast of a train out the windows
roaring past us, violent and shining.