Marlena's

Chablis, a cabaret song.
Rick at the bar laughs;
bitch's wig is on all wrong.
Drag done well
sets the ladies from the boys.
You have to take it all in stride
with grace, guts and poise.
Every inch of viciousness
and the thrown drinks, too.
Also, it doesn't hurt if you can work blue.

Off I-5

It starts to fit:
the wood porch
collapsed after years
onto brick feet
recalling a drunk love
draped on his girl.

Moss-roofed, boards curl.
Backed by hills
on the flanks of which
cows are as black ants.
The sun runs warm gold hands
through the doorjamb

time has twisted, neglect has bent.
It sits in a field:
a rotting house.
Abandoned, it never seemed
so much like home,
a cabin of soft gray bones.

Vehicle

Gate of horn, gate of bone
Through which gate do I go?

Alone but for the hornet on my
left eye:  a sting for the guy

Who wrote The Golden Bough,
and one for "Death be not proud..."

Words to a carcass carrying me
For want of a toll, a cash fee.

Think briefly on what you're allowed to perceive.
Nirvana comes quickly to those of us who grieve.

Three Leaves

Happenstance design
Scattered (what fortune)
In my teacup
A geometric proof
Awaits transcription:
My ticket to fame
In academia
All in the accident
Of appearance.

Constant Gardener

Your roses look their best in July.
Some leaves aphid-eaten, but their red buds
and blooms were by a miracle of fish meal,
a magic of manure profuse.

You never cut them to display inside.
I always wondered why.  You made a playful
grimace like an ogress and said,
"What's most fun is to cut them back to nothing for winter."

Delevan

Blank face, a vague tracery on the faded, hand-painted plywood sign.
We drive by flooded fields of rice.

Dust kicks up off a rock-strewn dirt road.
An angel's voice sings an ode on public radio.

Then a pledge request airs as the white noon sun
Bakes us, heat rising in waves.  The open trunk

Contains a shovel, shotgun, orange vests. They'll
Put on waders, trudge through autumn stalks with the dogs.

He'll tell you the rest over a round of beers a guy sells
From a styrofoam cooler near the canal locks.

Birdsong

Starling in the sky, sing bright
Starling high above take flight
Your shadow against the noon sun
Unfold your simple song for everyone
Soar from coastal range to valley floor
To San Joaquin, to Pacific shore
Starling, starling, yellow, black
Sing your song, bring them all back:
Father Serra and the Indian's names
Mark Twain and people from the plains
Jack London's courageous men
Steinbeck's Cathy, Sutro's den
Starling in the sky sing bright
Lead us to a moon-bright night
_____Filled with all of them.

1997

I saw you once at the Fuck Jesus Show
You wore a Wendy O t-shirt.  You had blow.
Pomade in your hair, love in mind
You took me to a bathroom stall to unwind.
"No here, no, there."
We fumbled, panted -- we didn't dare
Get caught by the doorman
It wouldn't have been fair.

Shrike

Hunkered like a lover
over prey
as awkward as a man
who has to pay
tear at what's yours
today is the day
you offer nothing
but take what they say.
Stench of beetle, spider and fly
bits of carcass, gloss so bright
talons pin what impaling fails
to keep in place.
Space in the barbed-wire fence
glitters and fades.

Bleeding Heart

Open fuschia
scent of something split
under fern
over moss
damp, northern grit.

Pendulous, purple, red --
a row of lanterns
by a new bride's bed.
Cool and dark
curtains part

A girl
with a flower's name
gasps with a start
as sunlight cleaves
the canopy, the sheets.

The Enforcer

Eliot Ness, where are you now?
Belts of rotgut at the bar with your pal

La Migra, it's rising star?
Will you marry the ICE queen?  Talk her up?

Knock her up and out?
Where is your noble warrior's doubt?

Discretely furrowed in your brow
For a moment and only one.

Who is hiding in the drum
You chop at with an axe?

A stool pigeon who's too foul, too afraid
To speak anything other than fact?

Who do you see in the full-length mirror?
One man or many?  Clearer

Pictures are drawn on the napkin by your drink.
The worst that could happen is that you might think.