quality time with this animal:
Yugguy, rabbit and turtle combine,
transforming in the blink of an eye,
blowing bubbles through blue light bulbs
and the orange one in my reading light.
laughing quietly by myself
with all my animals.
god.
he blows the bubbles well.
Archive for January, 1992
Yugguy
Posted: January 28, 1992 in PoetryTags: Animal, Blue, Eye, God, Light, Orange, Rabbit, Turtle, Yugguy
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Never Tamed or Rochambeau
Posted: January 28, 1992 in PoetryTags: Eye, Kill, Love, Rock, Slient, Smoke
I could kill you,
probably,
before you could react.
not now, though,
because you’re aware of the thought.
but sometime when you’ve forgotten,
I puncture your eyes
with hooked fingers,
or rip the bridge of your nose
off with savage teeth.
the potential is there.
I could love you,
probably,
before you could react.
not now, though,
because you’re aware of the thought.
but sometime when you’ve forgotten,
I admire your sight
without judging,
not interrupting your sense
of where you’re standing.
the potential is there.
the potential, flashing
as smoke rises from split rock.
whispering as dry paper
down a silent hall.
calling like idle scissors
twirled on your fingers.
but tired of listening
to nothing worthwhile,
I got a glass of water,
I walked a long way,
I climbed a sturdy tree and listened to
a worthwhile nothing.
padding softly
through starry halls
lined with glass trophy cases
searching for my rubber ball
bounced once too high;
searching many interesting places.
lots of animal heads
in the glass museum.
big teeth and manes.
you can see them, all dead,
but no rubber ball.
they give me the creeps
just the same.
I have so many toys
I don’t know what to do
with them all;
guns and men and jeeps
scattered around the floors
while I’m looking
for just one.
when the thunder stopped rolling
around the sky like a marble
in a fishbowl I stuck my head
out of the closet to take a look around.
my room was fine; I was scared
that the rain might have come in
stamping his muddy feet on my bedsheets
and stealing all my comic books.
you shake
your mental booty
at me and
you
know
it.
sometimes the voices get faraway
when I sit in the sandbox and play.
I don’t know why I pushed my trucks
around, I did it anyway.
I was born
playing racquetball
against a page like this.
sometimes this was all
I had to do
to keep myself warm
in the nighttime of the fall,
in the yonder of the blue
when there wasn’t you
to kiss.
day comes near and bleeds on me.
all the trees, all the frogs
leave in little ships
labeled by the experts.
the flowers tremble but
still no wind on this punctured shore,
wheeling through someone else’s sky.
I stopped after the rains
to listen to the silver frogs chanting,
who I could never find
when I wanted to watch them sing.
I could hear their beautiful piping
from my little room,
and I fell asleep to their chorus
in the light of the sun setting.
my father taught me how
to split wood,
carefully, with a sledgehammer
and wedges,
not fighting the grain,
but splitting good;
how to pry apart
the stubborn pines,
when you shouldn’t hit oak
hard and when you should.
my father has taught me
how to split wood
and I’ve never thanked him for it.
I was seen talking shit to a monkey
on the street corner
in broad daylight.
A group of people gathered to watch him
kick my ass for telling him
that I was afraid of his thunder.
As I lay, rolled off the sidewalk
next to the curb, reading
the brands of tires as they rolled by
I believe what they did
was truly heroic,
kicking my ass and all.
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