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in the wind. Down
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the center of the open room:
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12 toilet stools, six pair,
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back to back. Sits down
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and asks for privacy,
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holding a towel in front of her
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with trembling hands.
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4
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In a North Dakota prisoner-of-war camp,
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surrounded by Germans & Italians,
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a quiet man
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hammers a samurai sword from scrap metal
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at night in a boiler room.
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A secret edge
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to hold against the dark mornings.
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He sends love notes to his pregnant wife
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in Tule Lake
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sewn in pants
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mailed home for mending.
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His censored letters
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mention a torn pocket.
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She finds the paper near the rip,
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folded & secret in the lining.
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White voices
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claim the other side of the ocean
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is so crowded
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the people want to find death
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across the phantom river.
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Headlines shake their nervous words.
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Out on the coast
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beach birds print their calligraphy
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in the sand.
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It is such a small country.
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—displayed in the Weaverville Museum
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It is the picture of a man who dreams
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at night, his dreams a cartoon color
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he can’t forget in his blue cell:
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a fork chases a hard-boiled egg
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across the smooth paper,
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cheered on by an angry alarm clock.
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The clock rings
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and the artist knows it is morning
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even though the iron cell
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is in a basement with no windows.
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In the center of the painting
|
the devil blows a whistle
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and his pitchfork drips blood.
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Above in the night
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a man has taken off in a Buck Rogers spaceship
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heading for a yellow one-eyed moon.
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He grips the steering wheel in the open cockpit
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and doesn’t look back.
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In a lower corner
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under a naked tree
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a satyr sits and plays his pan-flute.
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The notes weave all around the painting,
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twist around a girl
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dancing in veils.
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All the people in this restaurant
|
are glad that they are not you.
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The sky wants the water to turn grey,
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but if I notice how waves
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Held tight. By accident, he swallowed
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The Pacific. The water poured down his throat,
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A blue cascade he could not see.
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He felt in his stomach
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The heavy life of the ocean.
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It wasn’t funny, but he giggled
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When a school of fish tickled his ribs.
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He went home, the surf not rideable,
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It was no longer there,
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The water weighted in his belly.
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That night, while he slept, the tide moved.
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The long arms of the moon
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Reached inside him pulling the Pacific free.
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When he woke the next morning,
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He lay in a puddle of ocean that was his.
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Steel horses nodding
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In the petroleum field are beasts
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That suck
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