storefront poetry: 12-14

12

talking instead of writing poem
stuff—neither exoskeleton nor
guts—not the three parts: head
thorax and abdomen     wasps attracted
to the glowing beer glass’ heart
eye the surface and the open space
between there and your mouth before
putting it to your lips     where is
the poem: at the tip of your tongue
at the top of your throat quivering
in the back of gibbous cave open
then closed wind tunnel talking
talk’s rumble through breaths and
a listening exchange with adam
irish from the land of people
of the eastern dawn (door) . . .
cape breton . . . here for his last
year of high school—writing     making
music and smoking a little skunk
en route to foundation year at king’s
in halifax . . .writing and journalism
to create self-sufficiently with
friends sharing and caring the days
in sun through blood into seed and
winter towards new green promise

23sept 2008


13

columns of cloud truncated
clipped like a head in a misjudged
hanging—drawn beyond hope—
above the student lockers Ase
after case filled with stuffed
birds and other animals—some
amateur or obsessed taxidermy
project—little man bent over
his bench magnifying glass in
bright domed light     wiring wings
adding glass eyes and labels
what is it that places insects
and sailing ships—wooden models
all—in a display together?
zoya with all she imagined
needing for four months in canada
in her suitecase(s) packed . . .
The billowing clouds darken
scorned like salt & vinegar kettle
potato chips and i wonder about
the underworld of the potato
goddess and the great alpaca
sacrifice for eternal foodstuff
for the hungry mountain folk
so celluloid far from rabbit hole

23sept 2008


14

a row of marilyn on photocanvas
above my head—some would see
the poses of an angel—desire
or fallen—but embodying dreams
rounding out the column doric
blackening clouds spit on intent
to move 50,000 comic books this
afternoon . . . that’s quite a haul!
ropy-headed goth chicks in blue
jeans with little star and spider
purses . . . small hail pings off
truck hoods and sidewalks wet
i’ve learned that the pod resides
upstairs through beaded curtain
like a moroccan office manager
—wild billowing curtains over
opened window as shelter-seeking
pigeons fly through hail pellets
in their mostly black & white lie
world whatever on foam platforms
with even the pale pink & blue
feeling greyscale dinosaur breath
and a furrowed brow reflection
of lone wolf feet walking away
from the cashe display case

23sept 2008