roadside attractions

falling in the gardens into massive silence
quietening the city's clamor and clang
fountains a public cleansing
while just beyond the shirtsleeved men
play at being fathers, at seeding young things,
we guard our children from the fall

shutting mouths in the garden
the relation between parts
what the professor calls, in a tsunami of synonyms,

Harmony
Symmetry
Proportion

All Elements of Beauty

but beauty bores me
its plastic face all one for one
perky and perfectly dead

what enchants, what siren calls
not - dash your vessel, you mad thing -
no! dash instead, notion of this self in your hand -
whole and apart - brush quickly the shards
gather and hold them

the fault lines reveal
what is real

no, beauty is a roadside attraction
rickety buses choose this spot to bust a tire
and careen narrowly onto the road sideburns
they require that each stand be examined closely,
til the elements break down too, and
drop to the earth from the perfect height
shatter
each piece liberated into wholeness

lights in the classroom flicker
and fail

mj

we can’t even get michael jackson back
strange that such a bleak landscape, billie jean and not my son,
seem so innocent now,
after the near-fall.

the rakish lift of one sleeve – what did it mean?
a time when style was everything
and a homeless man required only the celebrity touch
to change rags for a white tuxedo
gold teeth for a golden watch

and we all knew - you wanted to move like him too

today we lust for apocalypse
no use pretending
dance towards it, in control, with moves.

one day, if the end does not near,
hearts will explode all over the same bleak backdrop
and we all thought he was the one

like every song

this song, like every song
pretending to heal heartsickness or salve souls
is really about
what happens when sleep does not come.

We kill the world with our pleasures.
I who have seen only reproductions,
sad shadows of endless fear and pain and human hurt,
wonder nonetheless

at shopping malls, art buyers, social drinkers talking politics
(for what is politics but polite war
not so polite for all that)

here,

while there
dismembered parts, buyers of death,
dusty paths bare but for the mechanics of blood diamonds,
supermarkets not even a useful dream

wishing to be above the fray, I sit silent,
a part of it all

Killed for a song

Lounès Matoub

Killed for a song
homage to its power

every mythology has its version of
You shall die but yet live
history does not linger on you
but begins with your ending

Berber carpets, Berber struggle
a place where folk singers still expose freedom’s beat

cars and lipsticks will just have to sell themselves

Friday night in the city too busy

My phoenix, lit dusky pink and grey blue;
she is wiser than her short days,
and dirtier.

It is Friday night but none know it

Steel grins over the city
slabs of paved meals
grab at shoe rubber

What is there to love about a place?

I try to hold it in front of me
but the concrete cracks too quickly
to reveal an ache below

In a contested park
bushes rise and fall with forbidden sleep

Dense southern air
adding weight to dreams

Woodruff Park sags into the twilit night,
one checker remaining
of the day’s heat and loss.

Teeth

la sonrisa de un niño
en el parque Santander
haciendo intentar volar a las palomas

se rie y hasta los ladrillos del museo de oro
deslustran

se rie
y las bocas de los lismoneros
llenan de dientes

After

After

The fruits of loneliness -
not all bitter pears plucked from accidental trees -

No, some inhabit storms
drown in spots unimagined,
harbingers of equally strange joy

the plane stays blessedly aloft
and I return to my seat
gritty pearls of pear skin
still on these lips

lines on the earth

Latitudes and longitudes – I never could get them straight

Turns out they were curves,
running lightly cross the globe’s spine
The names of places whispered in her ear –
she giggles – who knew Atlas would be such a tender lover?

Latitudes and longitudes, never could keep them straight
the will to twist too strong
Havana, Sept-Illes, the Greeks had it all wrong
Earth climbs on her own two feet,
and Atlas just strolls along.

From his pockets bursts a bit of peach fuzz
he bites, and lets a sweet drop fall
from his fingers
to her cheek

As her neck arches to him, half the world falls asleep
the other half she wakes with a soft moan