Monday, May 23, 2011

The Circus

I get my nose pierced by an old lady
with pointy knitting needles.
I get a tattoo of flying dust clouds full of mustangs
from an old basketball coach.
I breathe in the sweet, humid air spiked with sawdust.
I walk past the center stage throwing shadows
through the crowded grandstand.
I walk by the red striped awning of a cart hooked
to a swinging lantern.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Form of November

I met the abstract man composed of ideals
hidden in geometry. He had no voice,
and neither did I. He was strong between his speechlessness
and the form of a book. His despair is in having been
constructed. His hope is that nature will vanish
into industry. I met him in front of a factory.
He had made a choice.
     I was subordinate to his voice.
     I was a child of production.
The factory employed me in spring.
It was November, and I hadn't made a pitchfork
in months.
The subordinate man was labored with mood.
It was November, and we both began to speak.

Friday, May 6, 2011


The day unfolded. The map unfolded.
We looked at the day. We looked at the map.
The wheel had turned once, and I came to visit you.
Your location was a bike stand in a Tucson doorway.
The spokes of the sun tightened our bond.
A photograph drove the blue into the sky.
There were ants and roads in the park.
We climbed out of the desert into a picture.
Our pedals flew west into the arms of an arboretum.
We cooled our canyon feet in a stream.
The saguaros looked one way when you walked by them
and another way when you rode by them.
In the corner a cliff was getting ready to move.
We rode a headwind home. I stretched.
You ate some pretzels.