GUEST EDITOR: JONATHAN HAYES
--------
FEATURED WRITER: DANIEL O'CONNELL
DAN O. is the reincarnation of a small, pre-historic flying insect related to the present-day house fly. His poems have won awards from Clarendon (1986) and Bay Area Poets Coalition (1996). His poem "Comparing Myself to the Buddha" was a finalist in The Mississippi Review 2002 Poetry Contest and published in it's Spring 2003 issue. His poetry has been anthologized by Comfusion Press in Nepotism Dispatch One (2003), and has appeared in Haight Ashbury Literary Journal (1998, 2000, and 2002), San Francisco Bay Guardian (Sept. 1998, July 1999), San Francisco Reader (July 2002, Oct. 2002), Bum's Rush (Yerba Buena Publishing Company, Dec. 2002) and elsewhere, and is upcoming in Over the Transom, and Snow Monkey. He is the author of one full-length collection of poetry, Different Coasts (Parthenon West, 2003). Another full-length collection, Theory of Salvation, is forthcoming.
1900 Eddy St. #15 San Francisco CA 94115
415-614-2417, doconne@itsa.ucsf.edu
WHO CAN SAY
A prairie dog leaves its burrow,
Stands, proud as a man, casts
Small, skittish shadows and a cliff hawk
Swoops him up and the rodent, rising,
Dying, sees more than was ever possible.
A man is bumped by accident
Onto subway tracks, is mangled
And killed before the train stops
And the search for who he is begins.
The answer is found in his wallet
Or bloody mouth, or not.
Who can say what all this means?
It is a brutal world, yet violence
Against violence is not simple violence.
The vicious despot deserves to die
In agony.
It is right and fitting to string up
The slave owner.
The beaten wife, who stabbed the husband
Twenty-five times, should be free.
The coal boss, cruel as a brick, ought
To be buried under the stupid earth.
The prairie dog leaves its burrow,
Stands, proud as a man, casts
Small, skittish shadows and a cliff hawk
Swoops him up and the rodent, rising,
Dying, sees more than was ever possible.
--------
THE HIDDEN CAMERA
The hidden camera shows the cook
Spitting into the pasta primavera,
And why not?
Did we expect differently?
--------
THE ANT HILL
If I were an ant, I would not be a scout
Destined by my miniature mind to venture
Beyond the native hill and beyond the hill's shadow,
Blades of grass felled by my relative weight
On a selfless search for new fields of food,
Climbing at an unnatural angle in utter darkness
Only to discover a sparkling kitchen, standing
Little chance of telling the tale.
If I were an ant, I would not be, nor wish to be
The fertile, winged Queen taking flight
To fuck her doomed male to death in the air,
Laying more eggs in a single slimy heap than the
Populace of New York City times three,
Served honeydew and berries all my month-long reign.
I would be, I suppose, qua formicadea,
One of the ten thousand thousand workers working
Underground in a chain, connecting points on an X/Y axis
With crumbs slung over our hard shoulders, or…
I see myself now, I see myself now
Conveying grains of sand, dutifully, one after another…
Marble stones for a new temple! I am an ant! I am an ant!!
--------
THESE GREEN HILLS
The bombs are dropping elsewhere.
These green hills are not being pitted and peeled.
This row of houses not shredded like lettuce.
This town's radio tower not grated to its nub.
The bodies scattered like burnt pumpkinseeds
Over untranslated fields
Cannot imagine the pursuit
Of happiness.
Here, kitchens smell of basil and sage.
Skillets turn onions clear.
Ovens coax bread to rise.
Only sun and rain fall through the sky.
War will not cease until each human heart
Is full of love,
And so war will never cease.
The universe itself, people believe,
Began with an explosion
As if God were a terrorist
Or
To deploy a different rhetorical term
An army pilot.
Our universe an explosion, a bang
Scattering matter like shrapnel
Though the facts point just as much
To a flower
Suddenly blooming.
--------
PREPAREDNESS
I'm fully prepared for war.
I've dug a bomb shelter
In my third floor flat,
Stocked it with energy bars
And a whole new forest,
Dehydrated water to make
Rivers with my spit.
And I have bongos!!
Bongos!!! Bongos!!!!!
--------
DEPARTED
My buddy Mitch was a sinking star: baseball,
Football. So I sat, top row in the vacant stands
Suckling 16 oz cans, watching the team practice,
Waiting for him to finish, shower, lock up
His locker, and we'd drive down Sunrise
To the woods behind Pilgrim State Psychiatric
Hospital, smoke a graven pipe, drink
Spirits, stare
Into searchlight, speculating
About what would become of us.
There was a culture, my ex-wife said,
Bringing a marriage-ending argument to a
Sudden halt-an isolated African tribe discovered
In 1955, that dealt with their psychotics this way:
They gathered around the prematurely departed
Soul, that was the theory, the soul had gone to
The other world too soon, so they made a circle
Around the man or woman and called to the soul
"Come back, come back, we need you, we need you,
Come back, come back." All forty or so of them
Sang to the soul "come back." It worked, she said, and
We cried as if crossing the same deep stream
Though our wedlock ran its course to ruin
Within the month. She was teaching anthropology,
I was getting a Ph.D. in philosophy. The story
Was like a line break, good for nothing
Except to slow us down. Consider things carefully.
When the lease ran out, we moved out, without
A word, the furniture itself
Inspired by our stubbornness,
But my old friend and I just drifted apart
As our saying goes, and for that
There is no good reason.
--------
TROUBLED SLEEP
I have two types of women -
Shuffle my feet from one to the other
Like a perpetual motion machine,
Each affair like a documentary film
About the failure of God to create
Beings capable of love.
At night, though, I dream
An American Dream in which
I lose my legs in an U.S. attack
On a country that rhymes
With knickknack. In the morning,
We make the bed we'll die in.
--------
OSCILLATION
At a table on the other side of the café, a man
Like a fire at the exact point between dying
And bursting again to flame, which is like
That unnamed feeling between reckless laughter
And convulsive crying,
A man is smoking and seething.
I've counted his cups of coffee, five,
Followed the rhythm of his clenching,
Unclenching fists, looked
Into the corners
Of his crystal eyes, felt
The tightening of his thinking jaw
And see, in the mirror-y window,
The source of his delicate rage.
--------
WRITING TIPS TO MYSELF
Stay close to details:
The clay figurine of St. Francis
You found on the sidewalk this morning,
His light blue robe glazed smooth over ripples,
The strangeness of his being there, pink face
And broken nose, one arm missing,
Stump chalky to the touch,
Some kids playing with him now,
Shrieking in the filthy street,
Orange-haired girl singing by on a bright green scooter,
Old man stooped under his sombrero, shuffling
As slowly as a forming star:
This high window like a ship's lookout
When the world was flat.
Use metaphor like fact,
Fact as metaphor.
Use similes like science
And science sparingly, for theories
Are as fleeting as ideas of what God is.
Never philosophize. Never preach.
And when you do, as you will,
Make it so the crow
Pecking deliciously at road kill
Can understand, and evil men
Assassinate themselves.
Use your pen like steel wool
Scraping rust off the surface
Of contradictory ideas
(Avoid the word "idea"
You use it too fucking much).
Curse only when essential.
Let the mouse be your spirit guide
Through sheet rock walls,
Follow a snail-paced butler
Down ornate marble halls -
Let him take your jacket,
But keep your notepad and pen
Like money in your pocket.
Use rhyme like a music-fueled rocket.
Be ready for failure.
Let your poem be as a café
That collects, over time, an assortment of oddballs
Who loiter all day, justified by a cup of coffee
And refills,
That the proprietor never suspected
Would be his best customers
And, in a word, friends.
When stricken by self-doubt or stuck
As a fly to fly-paper, stop,
Take a stroll through sprigs of new wet grass,
Spotted with soft piles of dog shit
Like the penetrative dots
Of a yin yang circle,
Scrape both off your feet
And knees,
For your should be praying, naked,
To the ordinary.
Use a cliché when necessary
Like a baseball bat hammering nails
Into an exhumed coffin
Being readied for its return to earth.
When the poem is finished,
Add a line
Or take one out -
It doesn't matter
After all:
Only love matters.
--------
FEATURED WRITER: JONATHAN HAYES
JONATHAN HAYES is the author of Echoes from the Sarcophagus (3300 Press, 1997), St. Paul Hotel (Ex Nihilo Press, 2000), and self invented (split chapbook with Mark Sonnenfeld, Marymark Press, 2003). Recently published by M.A.G., Remark, and Sidereality; he edits the literary / art magazine Over the Transom.
STUYVESANT TOWN, NEW YORK CITY
watching them
spin smile dance in living room
record player sings
"puff, the magic dragon"
weeks later
barefoot on hallway floor
not understanding their language
of loud black & crooked red words
stretching into
the last street of infancy
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MARBLEHEAD, MASSACHUSETTS
in grammar school room
with no classmates
teacher holds me down
determined like parent
"stay in your chair
& pronounce the words correctly
they must take the shape
of the models in the book"
mastered walking
learning how to run
--------
KEY WEST, FLORIDA
climbing palm tree
burned pink by the sky
looking for answers
inside green coconut
swimming with nurse shark
& parrot fish by coral reef
skin is the same color
in another world
--------
WAYNESBORO, VIRGINA
in the mess hall
at military school
back straight like flag pole
& chin up
the boy on my left
his lips from jamaica
the boy on my right
his teeth from saudi arabia
the boy in front
his tongue from mexico
officer speaks in a southern drawl
"you may eat"
the entire mess hall understands the sentence
corn bread, okra, apple sausage & grits
--------
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
still in her safeway uniform
but now with a cigarette & drink
she fries tortilla chips in the skillet
holds up a bloody red steak to the kitchen air
with our tarnished metal forks
we smash avocados in a ceramic bowl
salt
lemon more salt
by the time the guacamole is made
chips are laid on a green guatemalan cloth
to dry
& cool
she tells us
"como extraño a mi tierra"
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GUADALAJARA, MEXICO
walking old town cobblestone streets
turning pesos over in pockets like prayers
next to cathedral in faded torn dress
indian woman squats
her wicker basket packed
with hand-painted clay figurines
tied with a rope to her wrist
city policeman empties basket
& smashes figurines with black boot heel
she screams at uniform
teeth move up & down
tongue rattles
basket & rope still tied to her wrist
--------
Blah, Blah
i feel
like i
did back then
but back then
was harmless
cuz
it was back then
a new student
of
milvia street
by the high school
in
white trash motel
parking lot
stephen king
spook you
like don't touch
squirrel got his parents
next / door
and keeps
walking
back from their room w/ way too too much
highway on his tongue
vision in vein
knives and drugs and bad tattoos
dave
sits
on the king size bed
w/ chicks and dudes and dogs
all around him
holding street riff-raff court
missing most of his front teeth
fell while rescuing someone
in the northern cascade mountains
thirty years old
and older then us
pink floyd the wall
green prison tattoo
on his chest
over left titty
each brick
a thought of glue cement thick
a pirate's grin in a eye blink thin
he takes the motel room mirror down
420 white labrador puppy dog smiles
and me
j-bro
watching the porcupines spin their needles
sent down to university avenue
to get 420 puppy dogfood
come back and squirrel kicks meth
bones it up
and then he goes back to indian conversation
his girlfriend tells me
she enjoys hearing him talk about his tribe
and crazy john who always talks is silently reading a book
on the floor
each chapter a hole in the arm
there are about ten of us from telegraph avenue
all spun and stupid and brave and beautiful
the motel lights never go out
and the moon hang's on one side
and the sun hang's on the other
and always
some kind of indescribable
in
the oakland
hills
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FEATURED WRITER: ADAM LIZAKOWSKI
ADAM LIZAKOWSKI, a Polish immigrant poet, was born in 1956 in Pieszyce, a city in Lower Silesia. He left Poland in 1981, arrived as a refugee in San Francisco in 1982, and since 1991 has been living in Chicago, where he has been instrumental in developing the city's Polish-American literary scene. His work has appeared in numerous Polish journals in Chicago and Poland, and his Polish poetry collections include The Cherry Bandits (1990), Contemporary Primitivism (1992), Unpaid Rent (1996), and Chicago City of Dreams (1998).
Adrian Wisnicki hails from Chicago, where he grew up and attended the University of Chicago. He received his Ph.D. in English from the City University of New York in 2003. He has written a privately-circulated novel, The Rock (1996), and collection of short stories, Losers and Such (1999). He is the Editor-in-Chief of The Fifth Street Review, an online art and culture journal, and currently lives in Gaborone, Botswana, where he works as a freelance writer and volunteer.
xadrianx@yahoo.com
Visit the Fifth Street Review at http://www.geocities.com/fivereview
(tr. Adrian Wisnicki)
WHO WOKE ME UP THIS MORNING?
not the idea of revolution or anarchy
not an earthquake or fire
not a nightmare or return to the old country
not my drunken roommate from Warsaw
but the garbage men
three young Italians shouting to each other
in their sonorous tongue
three boys (as in the dreams of young girls)
from Palermo, Naples or Venice
who came to San Francisco to earn a few dollars
born in the Republic of Dreams
imagined by poets and painters
architects and sculptors
opera singers
clamorously they drag the shiny dumpsters
full of garbage
towards the dumptruck
which awaits them with the patience of a mother
here by the curb
the whole street awakes
the Irish brothers cursing because they were up till two
drinking beer in a bar
the Asians furious because they work two jobs
and need their sleep
and I promise myself
never again to rent a room with windows
facing the street-
in short, we all envy those Italians
their well-paying job
until the morning, cross-eyed thief of men's dreams
with a smile like a child
hidden behind the rooftop chimneys
smiles with sunlight
--------
THE PRAIRIE
for Karol May, loyal reader
Prairie of boyhood desires, of bison and Indians on horseback,
above the clouds spread like fox-skins drying in the wind,
a sea of grass, the gusts of wind breathing mournful songs
of those departed, whose souls drift over the prairie,
wind attentive to the words, the tone, the phrasing-
no walls or bricks, windows or doors
or straw beds, clatter of horsehoofs,
a child's cries-only the wind whistling and silence,
everything in its place.
Prairie, for a long time now, in your heart
you've carried that arrow once aimed at the West,
and you've endured it, grown used it:
the world of Ionic columns, of Jewish tomes
bereft of their marble temple-floors, matters little:
the grass, feast of horses, is your sister,
the rabbit-chasing eagle your brother,
the light of day your God, because God is the light.
The prairie calls you with its wide stretch of solitude,
with childhood desires, you who envisioned it
long before setting foot on its turf,
to realize that the wind sings of no one but you,
you are the lonely, the beautiful, the wild prairie
set beneath the glass tent of star-covered sky-
and when you understand, you'll long to be nothing
but the prairie, your face towards the sky,
thirty-odd years of age, the health of a buffalo,
strong like an immigrant, more devout than
that ancient energy dormant now in the roots of prairie grass.
--------
LITTLE TIGER
My dearest kitty-little tiger
is my source of happiness;
he sleeps by me, bids me goodbye from the window,
greets me at my first step on the stairs,
makes my heart, though shy, tender and radiant-
he's smarter than Socrates, and when he purrs
in his music I hear a sparrow chirping at dawn,
his four paws are a miracle of nature:
with them he climbs up onto my lap,
proudly glides beside me,
his pelt is a constellation of pleasure
and my fingers-like rockets-plunge into it,
drop headlong, breakneck into a universe of unknown
shivers, raptures, joyous stirrings of the heart-
he lets me pet him, shakes his tail
in a ceremony so secret and solemn
that many a pharaoh never witnessed it.
He stirs a poetry in me,
illuminates me with love swift
as lightning across the sky where
bluebirds soar, through you know you can't
summon them, so let your green eyes,
colored like blue meadows, always be open
while the meows from your lips along the edges
of the Milky Way, tolling like silver bells
resound to warn me that your bowl
is nearly empty-to caution the hand that feeds you
and pets your extended back which curves
like the brackets enclosing a sentence:
you are, I am.
--------
FEATURED WRITER: DENNIS M. CHINN
DENNIS M. CHINN transferred into SFSU in the Fall of 2002. He is majoring in Creative Writing with an emphasis in poetry. Before leaving Los Angeles and following his career as a writer/teacher, Dennis worked for 4 years and holds an AA in Graphic Design. Dennis has had work published in Direction 2002 / Los Angeles Pierce College, Subtext, and has also been a featured poet on 360 Degrees of Music. He is also the editor of agumsfa: The Online Literary Journal of Poetics. And he is the publisher at agumsfa press. His most recent chapbook is Piece.
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FEATURED WRITER: ZACH HASH
I enjoy writing poetry, playing music, and performing. I'm currently studying poetry at San Francisco State University. I began playing the piano at the age of nine, and drums at the age of twelve. Now I play the drumset, piano, and Tabla's. And I perform primarily on drumset in the jazz/improvisational setting. I have worked and performed with Singer-Songwriter's such as Di Patterson, who is based in Santa Cruz, and the poet, Mario Ellis Hill, who was the "Slam Poet Champion" in San Francisco in 1994. I rarely take part in poetry readings, but I am open to the concept, and would like to do more in the future. The most recent music/recording project I have completed is entitled, Zach Hash Effect, and is available on my small imprint label, In3's Records.
zachash79@hotmail.com
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FEATURED WRITER: JUSTIN BARRETT
JUSTIN BARRETT is a poet living in Utah. He is the editor of remark., a webzine of damn fine poetry. His first book of poetry, i was a third grade genius..., was recently published by Bottle of Smoke Press. He's been writing for a decade to the lament of his wife and many magazine editors.
http://www.remarkpoetry.net/
g8rfan@velocitus.net
POETS AND HOOKERS
for BR
we both sell ourselves
but
one is a cure
for loneliness
the other,
its creator
--------
AFTER THE LULL
after months of
growing apart, the
little insignificances
slowly accumulating
into a wall that
separated us,
we find each other
across the expanse
of our bed.
she searches for my
body, reacquainting herself
with my bends and
curves;
my scars and
ticklish spots.
i rediscover the
crook of her elbow, the
taut of her thigh,
the soft of
her cheek.
she giggles when i
breath on her
neck.
i exhale.
--------
WORLD PEACE
after spending
an evening at the
mall downtown,
shopping with my
wife and
having dinner,
i was struck
with the fact
that i am an
american of
irish and flemish
decent who
drives a german car
uses middle eastern
and venezuelan oil
just bought french,
japanese and
canadian
likes to eat mexican
and indian and
greek
has a wardrobe full
of indonesian and
taiwanese and
bangladeshi
and, when she is
in the right
mood, sometimes sleeps
with an italian.
i'm just doing
my part to promote
world peace.
--------
FEATURED WRITER: MARK SONNENFELD
Having a grassroots mentality when it comes to the small press, Mark Sonnenfeld is the founder and editor of Marymark press. A prolific experimental-writer and collaborator, his chapbooks, broadsides, writing samplers, audio sound collages, and give-out sheets are circulated extensively across the international small press. Currently, Sonnenfeld's work is archived at several U.S. university libraries as well as spots in Europe.
--------
FEATURED WRITER: CANDY SMITH
Candy Smith lives in San Francisco, California, where she is pursuing an M.A. degree in Asian Studies at the University of San Francisco. She is the only student in her Japanese language class, which makes it very hard to get away with sleeping during class. Her current hobby is inventing a carbonated wine-cooler-like sake drink. Feel free to e-mail her your suggestions for the name of the beverage - so far, SKAZZLE, is the leading choice.
candice19672001@yahoo.com
NIGHT TERRORS
Lighttime tangential daydreams, afraid of concrete
night reality. This is affixed reality - recent past,
loose associations of blood and needle passing for
normal heavy-handed appearances. It rears sweaty and
vivid, lifeless yet astute, to haunt and torment.
--------
TANGENTIAL 2
Frothy demons reeked while biscuits cooked to near
crispiness. Putrid smells wracked the cafe while
thoughts raced. Pure clarity rushed to near
enlightenment. Words spewed forth. Falsity is
always clandestinely poetic. The appearance of false
prophets. Only one goat for the traders.
--------
TANTRIC THIEVES
Side soldiers scream perfection as middle voyagers
rush to judgment. The map should appear before battle.
Connections there but misguided as the smog forms.
Masses wretch in the distance.
--------
WEEN
Direct dowage means disciples for well meaning minion.
Pick and choose alms for encrusted flaxen numbers.
Apostles wretch for convivial masses. No more. Now
spoken in tongues. They weep for the lumberjack.
Blue sewage floats. Closely related to kinesiology.
Beside itself with effrontery. Rancid fumes reek in
darkness to penetrate mist. It is alone. Aghast from
comparison to bland biochemical petri crumbs.
Championship drink. Gluey algae bitter concoction
withers functioning innards while seeping artistic
ability. Frothier than mandrake, yet infantile in
tone and manner. Green goblin mummifies.
--------
GODZILLA
spring sprout-the green/falsehood-means
declining/ideologues reclining/elitist relief/open a
page-the answer/so obvious/yet so forlorn/no skills/no
life/and the holy knowledge-knowing or rote
blood brains needle falsity know/no-will never
demand expectations-deep seeds/ new crop/festering
reality negation free unification-iris fragment
pigment-below surface-place inflection-reality
locked in the word and not just the mind and
space-means so much yet can never be what it should
-the eternal ellipses-the word-what is the word-the
action-the feeling of foresight and foremost
foreboding-the pretense of the potential
portent-means ruination of scrotum
--------
FEATURED WRITER: AGNES BRINE
AGNES BRINE lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She is mostly found in her garden, or teaching Science and Math to the boys and girls of Cambridge Elementary. And at night she likes to go on boat rides down the Charles River with her husband.
I
We merry with Water -
Inside of Stars, for vision -
Then, see ourselves -
Frightened by the reflection -
The elements - float - constellations -
And our bodies shape
The dust of circus -
Feeling beyond -
II
The honest Echo escapes - untouched -
The Ghost we follow,
Like the last of Smoke - circling the Scholar,
The Void intrigues -
Thumb - to a chapter -
Read - observe - infer - stir
Off - to candy Clouds
For a taste of delicious disappearance -
Deep - smile - at the possibility of white -
Desiring color and Pith -
O, the Palimpsest is washed
For one more lesson!
III
The honest Echo escapes - untouched -
The Ghost we follow,
Like the last of Smoke - circling the Scholar,
The Void intrigues -
Thumbs - to a chapter -
Reads - observes - infers - stirs
Off - to candy Clouds
For a taste of delicious disappearance -
Deep - smile - at the possibility of white -
Desiring color and Pith -
O, the Palimpsest is washed
For one more lesson!
IV
We merry with Water -
Inside of Stars, for vision -
Then, see ourselves -
Frightened by the reflection -
The elements - float - constellations -
And our bodies shape
The dust of circus -
Feeling beyond -
--------
FEATURED WRITER: GLEN CHESNUT
GLEN CHESNUT was born in Amarillo, Texas. He graduated from Fresno State University and served a two-year hitch in the Army. He has worked at many different jobs, from cowboy to merchant seaman. After going to sea for twenty-three years, he settled permanently in San Francisco. His artwork has been exhibited in Northern California galleries and museums. His poetry and prose have appeared in various magazines and journals, including WordWrights, ZYZZYVA, The 33 Review, First Class, Over the Transom, Iodine, Main Street Rag Prose anthology. He has 2 books, Taking The Bull By The Horns, by the 3300 Press, and Of Time And The Leaky Faucet, by the Ex Nihilo Press.
3lg3n@earthlink.net
HIGH FIVE
I
He stands
in
an unfamiliar
corridor
gazing at
plain white
rectangle
What's
an aging
barbarian
to do?
II
Icy birds
swimming gorillas
and sheep
In death
the unlovely
vulture
is
sorely missed
III
Love and time
and a photo
of a man
who died
young
The smell
of peppermint
through
open window
IV
Listen
to
the sound
of decay
Dream
of shaving
the mustache
of God
V
Moving
to
the shadows
the weights
are
released
--------
EVIDENCE OF MY JOURNEY
In the coffeehouse,
2 tables over, a young woman
is writing a postcard
with her left hand.
It occurs to me
that left-handed people
push the letters into existence
and right-handed people
pull the letters into being.
What can I conclude from this?
Not much. So I return
to the book I'm reading.
I remove the airline boarding pass
I'm using for a bookmark.
On the back of the pass
it says, NOTICE
Please retain this stub
and your ticket receipt
as evidence of your journey.
Oh, I will, I will.
I shall also retain my twisted
nose and lined face
as further evidence of my journey.
As I open my book, the left-handed
woman leaves the coffeehouse,
leaving me thinking
left, right-push, pull.
--------
SITTING IN THE ATTIC
I'm sitting in the attic,
sitting in an old overstuffed chair
with cotton pooching through its greasy arms.
I'm sipping from a bottle of water
from the Fiji Islands-something Ellen brought home;
I would never think of buying water from Fiji.
On the bookcase to my right
a moss-covered plaster Buddha sits looking at me
with only a hint of features left on his face.
I brought him in from the garden
before the rains slowly dissolved him.
Standing next to the Buddha
a skinny papier-mâché boxer throws a punch.
A small marble copy of the
Venus de Milo gazes at the wall.
And a book on Jackson Pollock
leans against the bell that never rings.
From the radio Haydn's symphony #84.
Across the street a man stands on a ladder
painting a building.
I can't see him but I know he's there.
I sip my Fiji water. On the bottle
a beautiful flower garden and a waterfall.
When I was in Fiji I drank only beer.
In my mind's eye I see
a black freighter on the horizon.
A phosphorescent moon shines in a dark gray sky.
A naked man lies on the beach
at the edge of the lapping surf.
Near the man a sandpiper looks on.
Through the window I look out over the rooftops.
In the distance the hazy Oakland Hills.
Restless pigeons fly in every direction.
I look at my watch.
It's time to go buy the afternoon paper.
I listen to the music.
I look at the stuffing trying to escape
from the greasy arm of my chair.
I sit for a while longer.
I'm not quite ready
to join the world of headlines.