h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





The sky rolls open its garage, and long black clouds 
rumble outside. They run on picnics,
balls games, parades, burning them all into H2O.
The more that falls, the higher the grass grows,

the more room trout have to play strike-the-mayfly,
slurp-the-caddis, spit-the-hook. The Sailfish
Clan of New Guinea believe their gods speak
in colors. Blood can be eloquent, depending

where it is, how much, and whose. The bird-
of-paradise chatters divine wisdom when it flies.
Sunrise, for Botswana’s Ndulang Ndulangs,
is caused by burning heaven’s black grass,

on which death and shadows feed.
The Yipyipyipyip of Nepal call dawn “a screen
the mountains hang while Day slips into
her sari of gold light.” The Amazon’s Mumu-

mumu call love “a worm that burrows
through the eyes and swells the genitals.”
Its cure is worse than the disease. The eyes
go blind to beauty, leaking a clear pus:

source of all the troubles in the world.
Greeks blamed these on a curious girl,
though Sappho tried, with word-hammers,
to beat this thought from the Hellenic mind.

The leader of India’s Papaou Maumauz decrees
that sunrise is not, as once believed, the god
Rangadan Gangadingdong’s bruised behind, but rain-
spirits that dance in pink and indigo.

Phillies’ shortstop Elio Chacon, scrambling
for a fly ball, yelled, Ya lo tengo. Knowing
no Spanish, his teammate Richie Ashburn crashed
into Chacon, and was knocked cold.

Stretched on the grass in center field, Ashburn
heard clouds singing “Hernando’s Hideaway,”
and saw sun-yellow dancers glide, in close embrace,
across the flaming Philadelphia sky.


Stormcloud-curtains roll back.  To thunderous
applause, my face beams through. My ship's breezed in;
my train's chugged home. My airplane's made a three-point

landing on my Chief Detractor's head.
My pipes stop leaking. My dirty clothes don't stink.
My roof, about to wolf eight thousand clams,

repairs itself. The clams pledge allegiance
to me. The wolf does too. I pitch life's big
banana peel at a trashcan two football-leagues

away; it octopuses in. I frisbee
Death's lugubrious CD out the window.
Let it flying-saucer someone else's hair.

It's not my glass of Kool Aid; not my cup of pee.
Boo bop shoo wop / boo diddley op wham,
Boo dingbat / poodley at / doodley ap / scram,

That's what I say, so that's what everybody
does. Thank you Miss Simpson, who impeached me
as President of the Eighth Grade. Thank you

Jim Leatherwood, who made me hip-hop
out of my own band. And you, reviewer,
who turned my book into a frog and made it croak—

eat tsetse flies and die! I wish you well
eschewed. Well, well, well, well, it's really true.
It's happening. Can't stop me now—not you,

your parents, or your dog, not a congress
full of crooked lawyers (to tautologize),
not your good wishes or bad, your cash

or carrion, not Army, Navy, Air Force,
Aquamarines. Desert Storm was a zephyr
next to me. Look behind you. Look

ahead, above, below. Recognize
that profile, the cut of that jib,
jab of that jaw, jut of that collar, the scratched

glasses, rowdy hair, green Safari
Pants purchased in poorer times? I'll take
your Rolls. You take my bus, boy. I've arrived.


Copyright © 2011 Literary Pool, Inc.