scotch mirror

I stole the Glenlivet mirror from my dad

when he lost his home.

I told myself if he wanted it back

he could get a damned wall to hang it on,

but until then it was better off with me.

More an advert than overt reflection,

it shows me drunk, bonded and brittle,

the tenuous relationship between a father and son

who repeated histories in their own voices

and tried to make sense of themselves.  

the errant double-proof

I am born again a pie pan

in the kitchen of a master baker

now nauseated by the baking

for the memories it recalls.

Virgin enamel

shines sliding down my sides

and reflects promises of pastries 

my master refuses to stomach.

Drifts of butter blending

with lard, fine salt and spice

will never burn in my nose

for scorching my artisan

when he catches them unexpected

in just the right slice of his mind

as he retreats to his mother,

to her delicate craft of icing,

stippling resplendent fantasies

up confectionary tiers

or the savory fumblings of his father

who dredged tenderloins in sugar

instead of prescribed flour

to the delight of the dawning chef

discovering his tooth.

The pains folded into instants ensure

that the sweet fond of his fats

will never brown in me

and only dust will dust my edges.

I am a useless gift,

a token of talent resigned,

relegated to the future,

estate-saled to an amateur

who will never taste the potential

I was promised.

ratchet lake

For years the dry lake rusted,

eighty frustrated acres 

pitching tantrums in our backyard,

throwing up trees where we’d cleared,

mocking our attempts to scape the land.

We plinked water balloons in the bed

with a .22, teasing ourselves,

as one gallon by one

spilled to disappear,

whiling the time elegizing

l’esprit qui passe.  

Or something else entirely—

a capacity.

We’d drive over new trees

not just to kill them

but to fuck them up,

to maintain we were more than nature.

All in the name of recreation.

This was the indicative illustration

at the top of a clean page

in a very old book, 

the words and the world

were ours now to speak.

We scraped our plans and mockups

and cleared the thrown-up trees,

transmuted the earth

from sponge to occlusion;

reinvested inheritance

into our legacy

and counted interest 

not yet returned.

Weirs diverted backflow

for bounties of mountain laurel

and geese alighted to our delight;

this ratchet lake lived.

Sun cresting the power lines,

we saw the light on the lake

for a breath of a moment

before the lenders came and took it,

dragging us from its banks.

45 record, 33 speed

Tiny scratch on the motorcycle gas tank.

I am caught on that insubstantial score 
that skips the record back—

Might as well face it 
might as well face it 
might as well face

the collection sewn together
with needles and handlebars
and parkin sons and bloodlessorders 
and aqua nets of age that catch all 
and never lose their hold.

This scratch joins the loop,
jarring at the start, jagged at the end
across one thousand eight hundred twenty five and two 
plays alike in the same,
the same, the same,
the same;

I watch the best go down,
the pure, the strong, the virtuous; 
slow, in a drag,

the world purges its favorites.

There’s a tiny scratch in every thing. 
Every surface,
every tank
wears an inscrutable flaw,
hidden to all but the eye 
fixed on the fissure
that some giant
used for a toehold
to kickstart his ascent,
listening for the right tune to ride. 

sandy strips

The façade slips off the building,
a satin négligée puddling on the floor. Opulence uncovered,
rich, dreamy areolae, browning pink seducing the eyes;
a lavishly appointed cross-section dances for the other half’s pleasure. Rain soaks the naked breasts
and floods the underpinning,
bulging with sudden fullness. Flashing lights, sirens
bring the heat, rhythm, danger
and all is swaying in unison
and touching itself
clandestinely,
titillated,
rapt,
until
a pair of eyes
catches the imperfection,
the stain on the dropped lingerie,
a tiny blood stain,
an unanticipated period stain,
the disgusting remnant of an unfulfilled potential,
a hand through the bricks,
a pimple in the pornography;
the carnality ripens,
the lust rots. 

forward

The future tempts like a gardenia

browning around the edges,

fragrance ripening into the

sweet rot of old bananas,

unappealing to look at but

overripe with potential,

add rum and flambé

for a favorite dessert,

concluding a sumptuous feast

that sits too heavy on the stomach,

edging toward repeating,

egged on by the tantalizing,

sickening smell of the 

favorite flower, the

gardenia on the table

that will have to be thrown out

tomorrow.

careful, young queers!

Careful, young queers--
Be loath to judge your fellow sistren
          by those same standards of chastity
          to which they hold the feminine race
For you have adolesced with restraint
          and now, advanced (with caution)
          you have permission to defy presumptuous morality.

Break bridles, brothers--
Do not tame your hot, rosé flame
          as though to broadcast yourself
          were unforgivable
For you stand on the graves of your fathers
          and bare(naked)backs of your uncles
          who fought for you to be not ashamed.

Persevere, dear hearts--
Deny the God who denies you
          and teaches his flocks of followers
          to act with such callous indifference
For you are God’s great creation
          and your love is further (undeniable) proof
          of glamour in divine design.

ribbons & bows

Three decades in,

So we calm our breath,
put pause to our fear,
and rest on the progress
of the last thirty odd years?

Do we vilify Gaëtan Dugas, the peripatetic lover?
Or David Carr, or Robert R.,
petrified, not knowing how they’re going
down?

We have made advances,
and we can breathe again (with caution).
Now it infects/affects only the willing
participants in grave sin.

But this 4H feller
ravaged Miss Kitty,
even took down the goddamned Marlboro Man.
Could Asimov have imagined?

Still.
Niggling whispers of Christian Ladies
whose closet-husbands
haven’t brought it home
                                              yet.
Still they believe it’s somehow
                                                      a fault
with a particular blame to be placed.

Putrid memories
of funeral homes and cemeteries
which refused to honor death
for fear that death was catching,
not getting the punchline.

And now
we subtext,
we remember
with clumsy, sad mnemonics:
          He’s bought a Home In Virginia
          She likes Asians In Denim Shorts
perpetuating shame
          Goddamn Right, It’s Death.

Are we so cavalier?

I am not innocent.
The unbelievable bravado
to tell my brother
it’s no longer so tragic,
unaware dear Joey was already cold.
There’s my shame.

And for every innocent,
for every victim,
for every Ryan or Elizabeth
there is a Zondi or Makgatho
and forty million more
who didn’t have the luxury
of the pretty white face
of normal,

And who left
much the same as they came
alone and quite naked
alone and afraid
alone and unsure
alone and alone.

Wrap it in quilts,
put a big red bow on it.
Just don’t stay silent.

And don’t fall for the line
that so many
were so smote
for making each other
feel good
feel loved
feel something.

My father's garden

The earth will cut hard under the shovel
that snags on old root clumps beneath.
The sole of my foot usually gives up after the third jump.

I’ll work in some rot with my hands,
amending the soil for the winter clover.
It is all preparation, this step and the several that follow.


The packed clay will be full, rich, and scented sharp,
but without the regular revision
it will not allow new roots to take hold.

I’ll till by hand and not machine,
mixing my sweat with the compost
to fully invest myself in the dirt.

Each year that I come back,
turning the remains of last year
back into their ground,

the fruits will grow sweeter and more plump
and the crops will bear more product
and the earth will near its potential

and my belly and heart will swell.