I must do this to survive, Cardinal.
No breathing allowed, Mr. Bee.
I tripped on the stairs made of you, Maple.
Es muy Piso Mojado, Mr. Snail.
I will take my sleepwalk, Cloud.
The world is the mirror
and the world is purified.
Throw your hands in the air
and run. We'll be eatin'
what's on the shelf, Anne.
The puppy wants to jump
into the redwoods. The lamp
holds up the wine of illumination.
The mirror reflection
of the painting is all about the future.
We cannot live there.
Two women meet
on the road to Pissarro's
village. A little girl hides
behind the skirt of her mother.
The cattle lie in the field.
When I was a child,
I walked these fields alone
never thinking of danger.
*
I drank a pint of stout
and watched the ember
of my life glow, down there,
at the bottom. My Irish
friend, Denis, spoke to
the South Carolina girl.
I could tell by the way
she shifted in her chair
she was becoming aroused.
It was a winter's night
and embers were falling
from the sky and glowing
in the streets in vast
piles. The ember removal
team had to be called in
with their huge machine.
This was all quite close
to the Canadian border,
and everyone spoke softly
so not to wake them, the Canadians,
who slept
under piles of centuries
old maple leaves and twigs.
I'm not anyone I know.
I release a beautiful
blue wasp from a jar.
Later I am stung
by a yellow jacket
as I mow the yard.
No hard feelings.
Today there are no
magic numbers.
I recall how once we ran
the quarter mile sprint
in eighth grade.
It was 84 degrees F
with 79% humidity.
I ran about half way
and stopped breathing.
As I lay on the ground
surveying the lives
of grasshoppers,
I thought today there are no
magic numbers. It was
a comfort and I was
perfectly willing
to accept my death.
The gym teacher
hoisted me up by the armpits
and screamed, BREATHE!
It was that kind of era.
There are no magic numbers.
I sit in a stall
in the men's room.
A ton of paper
recycled saves 7000
gallons of water.
I wipe, flush, stand,
redo myself, wash,
and then walk back
down the hallway.
There are no magic numbers.
All the paintings of saints
and flowers.
The book of hours.
Dali's melting watch.
There are no magic numbers.
Like a Guantanamo
prisoner squeezing
his fingernail
into a Styrofoam cup
to write a poem,
so this day.
I wonder how the bees
back home are doing.
The red monk holds
his empty gold candlestick.
The monk has no face.
I am sitting in an old
red brick building
once owned by Al Capone.
Now it is haunted
by Captain Twinkle-Light
the pirate of love.
Young people drink
here and sell zines.
I am a veteran of the Roach
Motel Zine Festival.
There are no magic numbers.
I am close enough to the clock
tower to hear the chimes.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
A group of women
in the alley below knock
back tequila shots:
One. Two.
Girl's night out.
One looks ill. The building
across the way is “The Red Monk.”
The dystopian future
you once anticipated
is here. Blue and cherry
red haired waitresses
with playing card tattoos
work the tables.
The ladies' night out
has cleared. Gravy Sue.
Taste the hour.
There are no magic numbers.
I was saving this for you:
the super-utensil.
It costs a lot more
to park here
than any other life.