Tram Spark
Sunday, August 31, 2003
This war has been over
and is over and still goes
along. It is our closed city
and ten men from town
in a submarine that cannot
float behind a tug at four
in the morning on the Barents.
This war is high seas and fog
and an excuse for a drink
to the last trip to the scrap yard,
a Friday and a weekend away
from the wife and town.
Our war is just lengths of this
familiar submarine to the sand.
It is now one gasp on a wave
and two floating uniforms
and seven we will not find
in this cold. This war is another
declared day of mourning
this Sunday and bell-sounds
in the concrete church and
checks written out to families
in our city you cannot visit. 
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Between a dildo shop
called Her Own Devices
and a video place with a
display of Aunts in the Pants
was the cafe where we nibbled
at cakes and tongued
our froth moustaches clean.
Here I met her mother
face to face and a fly
leapt into her cup and expired.
She carried her own bags
to the curb, I was told. 
I could love you
just like this
up to your neck
and wondering what is
underneath and paddling
and what keeps you
just on the surface
at your lips
and at mine. 
Friday, August 29, 2003
The bad things,
dead people,
things I said,
rotten lies,
all mortifications,
worm together
in my middlebrain.
If I touch one,
they jump and
make me leave dinner,
hang tongue
and roll eyes at the
insides of my
closed lids.

The good things
have no such well;
they grow to be one
by one plucked. 
Friday, August 22, 2003
I remember when
she had a princess
phone and pink vanity
and her father ruled
the ottoman empire
by remote control.
No one was crazy
or dead then. 
The worst bits of love
you know the falling out
over bills or our failings.

The best bits are hardly
inseparable from fucking
and catching our breath together.

It's here on the lawn when
she looks at the grass and is
happy enough to lie back. 
Thursday, August 21, 2003
American dark glasses push
through clothes and show
only skin, such skin as
the skin of your mother,
your daughter, your wife.

Iraqi babies are trained to
hate Americans by smell.
When the babies scream,
the fingers of mothers of
mothers curl around knives.

American soldiers have
air-conditioned trousers
to keep their testicles at
the ideal temperature
for sperm production.

Iraqi women carry bone
knives in their sleeves
so thin that they cannot be
seen on edge and cannot be
detected by machines. You
believe you've felt a caress
before your blood warms you.

There is an electronic map
of Iraq in each American
soldier's helmet. They see
each house, your house,
the fire of your kitchen,
the warmth of your bed,
inside their black glasses.

An Iraqi woman will
oil an explosive and
insert it into her vagina.
When she seduces an
American soldier,
she pulls the trigger.
Arrested prostitutes are
given the option to
die like this or to
die by sharp degrees.

American soldiers snatch
schoolgirls and take them
to their camps. The girls
are forced to work naked
by day and naked by night,
to cook and to clean, and to
warm their beds, one girl
to a soldier. Even the female
soldiers take Iraqi girls.
The prettiest daughters are
filmed for pornography that
they sell in our Iraqi markets.
Suicides are denied burial.

Tunnels too deep for the bombs
run from Tikrit to Baghdad,
from Tikrit to the mountains, from
Baghdad to the edge of the sea.
The tunnels were mined by men
they promised would be free the
day their tunnels were finished.

Bodies of American soldiers
line the bottom of the Tigris,
weighed down by their guns
and their uniforms. If you were
to swim to the bottom with a light,
you would see them now, rows of
American soldiers lying face up
with glass eyes; their packs press
their backs to the bottom; the fish
and the worms of the river avoid
their tingling electrical fields.  
Her rolling down
to my place
among the springs.
There are her
apple cores, her
mumble pouring
another dream,
her whole head
drunk by me. She
rises and eats
and pisses and
wanders in her
sleep, rides horses
and maybe other
men in her sleep,
rolls onto me.  
Our moon in the other room
gives her face to us at night,
then falls and grinds her teeth,
gets half a day older and plays
alone round us always here. 
she has a chihuahua 
There must be a game tonight;
folk cluster seats facing televisions,
backs to the cool open door.
There's green on the measured
pitch and men running. There
must be a green and men running. 
At work I pink fluffy handcuffs
long curly red hair fresh from
shower bitable lip and shoulder
try to work. I give up and slouch
homo erectus down the corridor
and look for a glass of soft water. 
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
A place set. Either my mother
or my father. My mother at a
bare kitchen table with a book
when we sleep. My father with
a paper alone at a counter after
work. A cup of tea made herself.
A cup of coffee served from a
communal urn. No smoke or
smoke. Listening or checking
the clock. Reading is for this. 
How can I live
at home
with this stretch
of thin naked
but holding a
crop? She's
got a black
helmet and
boots. Who
would hear
if I yelled
myself hoarse. 
I try to place her
mother in the tree
of beasts.

She soups
the kitchen
but fills it
with warning.
She broods
over. She's
and tryworks.

related to the
gazelle and
Saturday, August 16, 2003
These are the days of the
teeth of George Washington.

When George Washington
fought the French and Indians,
he wore his Calcutta teeth,
carved from the tusk of an
Indian elephant that was said
to have stood on a sultan.
Each tooth was finely engraved
with a disguise of Shiva.

After the surrender of
Fort Necessity, the French
took his Calcutta teeth and
stuffed them in the ass
of a roast dog that Washington,
confessed assassin,
was compelled to eat.
Washington was sent back
to Virginia with the teeth
of the dog in his mouth.
This sealed over his soul.

When Washington returned
to guard the mild Virginia
frontier for six years, he wore
the dog's teeth and learned to
nip and growl. After two years,
he could snap a flea from a hat.
After three, he could hold
a servant girl by the nape
despite much thrashing.

When Washington retired to
Mount Vernon and marry
Martha Dandridge, he at last
gave up his dog's teeth and
negotiated with an old whaler
for a set of good narwhal.
Each tooth was the tip
of a single narwhal tusk.
It was in these days that
he wrote the mermaid
sequence that begins:
"Deep to the shell beds,
maidens of the combing waves,
deep in Atlantic I sink..."

The narwhals lasted
to the end of his plantation peace,
when Washington carved
his own untaxable teeth
from homegrown materials,
a set of good beaver
and antler with which
he mugged the Second
Continental Congress.

And to war. The battles lasted years.
Beaver and antler ground down.
In Valley Forge – he dressed
in feathers in those days,
as boys know, in the coat
of a thousand pheasants –
in Valley Forge three men
round one of the only fires
made their general a set of
hard teeth from the mouths
of frozen sentries. He called
these teeth his Watchmen
and ever after grinned air
before he spoke on anything
of import. You remember
the famous kiss of the sentryman's
widow, the grin and tears.

President Washington
wore a new set of hippo
tusk fined to a man's smile
at the first inaugural and
each of his remaining days.
When he took them out at night,
he carved Choctaw and
Chickasaw, Cherokee and
Creek, with a sharp steel
pick into molars and cut
Shiva back into his smile.

And he rose, up he rose,
into white hard clouds,
he rose, into white
set clouds he rose.  
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Red dirt in Atlanta,
a stock car rolled.
We know the man
and built the car.
All those slick tires
are burned and done
if he's dead. His daddy
hunches in the pit
and has none of it.
We ice machined and
hotel porned with the
fat boy who's possibly
done and we're ice
machined and hotel
porned if he's broken-
necked in Atlanta half
through the B-class season.
When he is suddenly
dusty red and walking
someone pats the bent
car and gets ice and
someone gets an axle. 
Sunday, August 10, 2003
A submarine at Holyhead
waits in the slip for a
signal from high command.
You're in a skiff on light
waves. You drop foil wrappers
in water, work at the radio.
Fish that would shine bite
a hook from below and start
running. A boy on the shore
lets a mylar balloon "I love
You" painted cuddly bear pop
from his fingers and rise. 
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
On a school trip somewhere
strange, Atlanta maybe,
three chorus boys in one
room, one big hotel bed.
We stayed up too late and
all the television stations
went off but one playing
a loop of silent films,
crazy inventions plunging
and crumpling to an
unsynchronized soundtrack,
one song, Who's Sorry Now?
over and over until we all
fell asleep. In the morning
I woke first and saw Dave's
head resting on Tom's thigh,
slobbering into his sweat pants.
We were boys and didn't know
that Connie Francis or flapwing
airplane carcrash films were real. 
Northern Ireland
quaffer (don't say
Irish, he becomes
more tedious) never
misses a chance
to say how tough
he talks of pounding
down all drinks and
men that cross him.
He wants he says to do
what's honourable
among the three women
he talks of at the bar.
I know their names now,
husbands, and the colour
of each inparticular hair.  
These lovers are hard
and crunchy Venusian
half-shelled and alien
tentacled, soft creep
unvanished. A dart shot
in a twin soft bit
drilled and uncoiling
the coil we all follow. 
I should let cannibal
snails die lapping the
yolk of their sister
brothers out from ground
shells, but who wants
snails with evolution-
hardened armor or radar
tentacles or acid
slime or spikes that
poison booted soles?
I save all humankind
when I share this
cucumber slice and move
the innocent when I can.
But fear new cucumbers. 
Saturday, August 02, 2003
My father in
hell pushes
buttons that
do nothing.

In hell, the
car won't start.
The coffee shop
is closed.

In hell, demons
flay and salt him
on an open fire
forever, but that's
nothing. The tea
is cold and there
is no sugar, no milk.

Hell's teeth.

My father in heaven
is a thin foreign
boy on an Indian
river. There are
crocodiles here,
a market, and the
river. A boy and
his mother. A boy
and a river. A boy
and a crocodile.

In heaven, he is a
trim man with a
moustache in a
small coffee shop
built on the edge
of a creek.
He reads the paper
and knows the man
behind the counter.

My father in heaven
kicks a ball high
into the air and we
marvel how high into
the air he kicks
the ball. Then we
let him sit and drink
his tea and don't yell
for him to do it again
eighty-four times.

My father in hell
can see and can just
speak but he cannot
move. He breathes
a quarter inch in and
a quarter inch out.
Glib visiting nurses
used to men dying
clean his ass and
jam a plastic tube
up his cock.

My father came back
as two crows on the
morning in the grass
over each on the grass.

My father in heaven
looked over my shoulder
just now at the girl
who floated through.

He built the fountains
in heaven. They work
reliably and at
very little cost.

In heaven, my father
is here.

The basement doesn't leak.
Cheese is on sale.
Cigarettes are pretty
darn good in heaven.

In heaven, he will sing,
eventually, "547,733,217
Years with the Wrong Woman"
on their anniversary and
we will still laugh. Though
as usual I will hear about
it only by phone.

We buy a Winnebago, pack it
for three months, and
leave him in the chase car.
He doesn't chase. It's heaven.

We never said that in heaven.

Birds land and speak.
He has seeds for them,
he knows their whistles,
and they know his.

In hell, as in heaven,
all the steel comes down.

My father is the sexual
demon of heaven. Angels
tuck wings about themselves
and half fear his pleasure.

That bell was my father
winning another argument
in heaven.

In my father's heaven,
there's a good dog, there's
a good dog.

In heaven, he's doing
everything he forgot to
do and getting it all right.

He walks barefoot on this
moss, such white feet from
out his boots, required nowhere.

He's just come home to dinner
at that picnic table he built.
There are chops and potatoes
and a salad with our tomatoes.
There is tea and a paper and grass. 

beam eye baby

AKA Eeksy-Peeksy or maybe dumbfoundry
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Boston Comment
Between The Lines
A Chide's Alphabet
Echoes of Gilgamesh
Electric Acorns
Great Works
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The North
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The Rialto
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Terrible Work

Poetry Salzburg
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West Branch (Bucknell)
Mississippi Review (USM)
Surgery of Modern Warfare

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