#743

In the shoebox bar with no name,
but a painting of a cobra's head on the door,
a guy bangs his fist three times
on the bar and speaks in a sermonizing voice--
this cocktail is made with the tears of a thousand women
and the bartender doesn't flinch,
but you know exactly what he means
as he downs the drink, its liquor
rolling down his cheek in the rush.

When the door opens, he immediately jumps back--
I'm sorry, I'm sorry--
but, not seeing anyone there, he laughs
and gets back on the stool.

The 45 in the jukebox is playing backwards,
the bartender whispers goddammit
and you roll out of the place, letting the sunlight
make you dizzy and, momentarily, blind.

#143

The dusk's light prisms itself
on the corners of these buildings
that mark the North Hollywood landscape,
make a net of rays, a laser beam security system
that hangs above the city.

Underneath, the farthest stretch
of Lankershim Blvd. lays flat
to the ground, like sun-cracked
tables of the Ten Commandments
and a faded pickup truck cruises by.

In the yard behind the used refrigerator shop,
a guy shadowboxes next to the shell of a waterheater,
a dog pushes a beetle around with its nose,
a wrapper from the taco stand lifts and clings to a trailer,
teenagers stumble as a group, singing Smiths songs out loud.

#142

Inside a hubcap roadside,
bolts, knuckles, the joint
of a skeletal thumb. The cactus
meditates on what it's seen.

The faded skill of a Cadillac,
its red paint rust,
the insides long burnt out--
dead tortoise for the vultures.

The sun just above the land,
like the glowing, knowing head
of John the Baptist come to tell
us get out or y'all be forced out,

and we're nowhere to be found--

I am the thistle clinging to
the cactus, I am the tumbleweed
shuffling out of view, I am
the long-sleeping hare, hidden beneath
the car's memory.

#175

A spider leaps from star
to star, weaving a web
across the sky, shimmering
net to catch our escape.

So I have worked hard
to master the art
of blasting my my body
to bits, to pass through

and on, to the other side.

When you look for me,
it's not that I left,
but that I'm tucked
in the hidden spot
of a moon.

#95

Sun, moon,
fire, water,
air released from
your lung's balloon.

Star warp
string symphony,
the loose percussion
of a nebula.

You choose your elements--
I ask for water,
but you've chosen fire,
fire every time.