Little Hands and Claws

Our clever basement rats
have tiny little hands
with tiny little claws
that can pick locks or unbutton dresses
to unclasp bras
and slip lost and secret
screwdrivers from tool chests.

They wear noiseless leather gloves sewn
from spider skins
and stitched together with sticky strands of silk
in darkness.

Untitled

maybe at the mad altitude
those dishonest wings
were mocking our arms
i hoped the aluminum would come together
reaching up and clapping, then hugging the cabin i was in, letting me end ugly.

marvelous forces, critical machines
well, we are all wells of desire
"you drop your bucket, i know you. you drop your bucket to me with a
sublime sarcasm, and you hope for me to fill it with exquisite arrows"

weighty arrows
unashamed of their impact
unafraid because it knows that it's intent is not to pin or puncture
but to release the fierce ego goo
inhale that sacred yes

the woman at the minneapolis airport sold me a packet of excederin
inside was a small pocket of paper, a "drinking cup"
it is "another innovative idea for people on the go"

Ernst 16

A hangman dances and sings "The Hot Tamale Man"
before a hushed audience.

In the balcony,
a daughter's lips quickly silenced
as the orchestra saws the violinist in two.

haiku on the subject of dirt and leaves

buried under leaves
escape from the dirt is still
possible, for now

weeds fester inside
dirty braids snake through vessels
lymph nodes fall like leaves

pressed into pages
until the old book opens
we forget the leaves

rain drives the worms out
their dirty caverns flooded
birds end their blindness

The hand and the bird

The hand
holding a feather

plucked
from the bird. The hand
goes running.

It has feet and eyes,
a nose and hair.
It waves

and takes an ax
to chop the grass.

Whipped

I know you will deny
That I ever taught you anything.
But sometimes
I take comfort in knowing
That I made you what you are.

They loved you,
They loved us,
Eyes glowed green as we walked by.

Your style, your form,
The follow through,
That special turn of the wrist,
Even the way you look,
It's all because of me.

They loved you,
They loved us,
Eyes glowed green as we walked by.

When you left
All goodness went with you.
I turned cold and bitter.
Now I warm myself with little red welts of spite
And burn the chairs you left behind.

Every Writer's Secret

He doesn't do this
alone.

He found us
in an alley
sipping a bottle
of spilled milk
and purring for help.

The cruel bastard
tortured us
which we don't mind
because we can smell the catnip
around here somewhere
asdfghjkl;'
a little more to the right...

We found it
underneath while
playing cat and mouse games ...

aklxckvnfhwerfns;xh

I spilled some of it.
None of them are journalists. They're sick
of reporting gnus
and gathering gnus--
Heard he stole an orangutan,

leaving them
disposable
Because I have opposable thumbs.

Ate

My hips still shudder
with the innocence
it's time you ate.
No more ghosts--this calls
for your hairy hand
here in my viscera,
my surgeon, my priest.

anatomy

there's something about his assemblage
of skin, bones, organs and nerve endings
that traps the libido and only
in post-hypnotic suggestion do I want
the mass of tissue in my hands

security

she enjoys
His nips over time.

entrails become ties that bind
her in her cage

she acquiesces. lifts her shirt

revealing

rusted blades
two theatre tickets
a rancid glass of chardonnay

Mass

Outside:
A crucifix has been nailed
To the roof of a warehouse.
Now a church. Grey PVC
Used as a streetlight.

In back, the lot needs to be repaved.
Potholes deep
As Satan's hatred.

Inside:
A priest leads the benediction.
Children run wild
Through the sacrificial blood.
Red as neon
Flashing Girls Girls

Girls nude, dancing for a dollar.
Gap toothed and fat
In their underwear. Earning
Rent and payments for coke.

She had smoked
Glass eyes and a crushed
Gravel voice.
Forgive me father
For I have sinned.

Samen

Ah, spring. Sunshine breaking over the slope
of her naked waist--the effect: waking
in some dewy hollow, cradled in shadow.
Not quite lucid.

Not quite lucid, I watched her dilate and blink,
pollen falling from her lashes onto the pillow.
I left her tangled before taking to the street
to meet Mr. Fountainhead.

She was making eggs when I came inside,
spread apart a piece of her newspaper,
slicing those oranges with Grandpa's
--bayonet.

Black Satin Bat Wings Burst Forth from her Petticoats
after Auden

In Ernst's 111th Week of Kindness,
everything turns away
quite leisurely from disaster: Francine only
hears her bustle split, and Mary must
rush to comfort her confidante -- the disappointment
of ruined raiment so great, neither notices
a boy falling out of the sky.

more of a caption than a poem....

Hold still
.all those bubbles
so frothy
..
are distracting me from the task at hand
.
quit kicking
.must read the map on the
bottom of your shoe
how else to find
The Sphinx?...Roger, come back with
our compass!

Betrothed

Soft
as a
petal she
whispered
be mine

life
flashed
before his eyes

now he
staggers
through the dark
morning

sound
bruised
by her wild
bouquet

Looking Back, Across the Hall

The rooms we occupied were abandoned, but ourselves. Moving around them we could hear each other creak, a dog toy being thrown and banging into the hallway wall, dishes smacking themselves together in the cupboard, and silverware with its thin laughter. The two windows of my room looked out into the backyard of a neighbor; as I frequently saw nothing, I had nothing to report. Your room being across the hall, the imaginary fire-zone (the carpet was red), we never set bare or covered foot on. I only received occasional reports on the view from your windows that you once described, in a 4 a.m. fax, as silhouettes of fourth quarter linebackers. Though, according to the legislation, we were not to communicate. I have, as they say, come to terms with the fact that some things belong in the "Means Nothing Now" file. For example, I've begun to miss my brother, and have stopped thinking of the dull cigarette lighters next to the gas station register.

From ... The Trans Am of my Childhood

A stick of dynamite walks into a bar.
She dances over to him and strokes his fuse.
Will he explode?
Not today. He slurps down
an orange soda spiked with antifreeze.
The electricity buzzes off and on
the way gas heats in a frying pan.

She strokes his fuse
and swallows his blasting caps
like baby aspirin.