Neon in Your Eyes



Here break brick
walls, work stopped,
blizzard blows snow

dunes along the walk.
Twilight at midnight,
fractals and stop lights,

sequins drift against
the doors as you
struggle out of sleep-

single cup of coffee.
Metal stockades, the
pit-bull drags a chain.

Amble out the door
and to an all night
market, someplace

open, bleak but near.
How holy the alley
under icy wires.

Squeeze around the
locked gate like half
a dream and stillness.

R.C. Cola Églogue
(after David Dodd Lee)


What he did went unmentioned
under the neon spine
of a motel sign.


The signature in the street
a paranoid scar.
The hawk


as feathered lightening
made her kill.
I will.

Unmade Beds


Little animals go
through the thicket,
by up turned pots
and on into the wild.

The broken hoe,
the rusty bucket,
the gardner rots
in his compost pile.

After  Ryan Stanford Smith's
"Stumbling On as the Light Fails"

It is either a bird in the hand
or a stick of yellow butter; heat seeks
to order the day, the hazy
creamlike spilling of eyes down cheeks.
Yes, what the bush says is true.

Artillery either blasts or laughs,
or points to monumental clouds; we're blaming
carrion, echos of royal trumpets on the hill.
Still we rub dark in our eyes, without evidence,
without reaching, and paint flame in blues.

As Long In Tooth


Film rolls inside our brains, dark rooms,
dog trots along the fence line--the camp
liberated by vacancy--where the night meets.

Cams grind gunked with clay and soil, gray
as an old womans laughter on the cellphone
and in the quiet. A horn plays the subway,

mourns the right to speak, the right to hear--
moon weather. Gone! taken away in black
packages, like little flaws in LED displays.

"It's getting worse," the whispers have it.
Head bones and hog squeals, naked in my
leather vest, I drive out to burn the field.

No Requests Aloud


He suddenly found himself in a small living with
two women named Ruby. They both had guns.

How did he go from a magazine to this? He
thought he was waiting for horses to pass by.

Call him Sandarco. His lips almost do dimples.
You can imagine any mustache looking good.

Ruby and Ruby draw out a line of sequins.
They space stars along their hems and shuffle.

It's more than chili poker and cob corn holders
by the time the blinds start to do their thing.

Our hero decides to catch the next train, if he
can find which parallels. This moon’s so purple.

Swollen (after David Lee)



The power of the inclement—we talked and sat
around the pond. The radio sang swoons.


That old black party.


A television’s on at lunch; serious actors in the rain
speak with tear wet cheeks. Dust covers the remote.


I get up to go to the kitchen. Do you need another?

Young Flowers



The mirrored chickens
had not had babies yet.


The horse cried for an
hour. The apples soured.


My sister stole schnapps
and all my better prayers.


Pa threw me way high,
so I know he was strong.


Pa bought me a cowboy
outfit with finge and snaps.


The nights grew long
as we waited for the call.


I want to go back to
Oregon and twenty-one.


My greed makes me
feel like I need to shit.


I hope no one ever sees
this, or know who I am.


If I give you a whistle
would your dog chew it?


Ma has concerns over
pa's kidney malfunction.


She didn't bring the chicken,
just the sauce and spices.


Speckles jump on the wall
and I think I hear fish talk.

Now that the Frankenstein monster, Osama Ben Laden, has been eliminated, it is time that Russia be assigned administration of Afghanistan. This reversal would truly conclude this episode of Taliban/Al-Qaida absurdity and re-institutes an authentic movement toward the globalized project of liberalized hegemony. The Russian interest is realized by the presence of Afghan drug cartels, which embody a threat to the Russia people, its allies, and by extension, Europe and North America. Russian presence is justified in the guise of a Middle Eastern "War on Drugs." This new position must be taken, in cooperation with Western forces, to reset the region to a pre-Reagan condition and allow a rational replay of the past two absurd decades.

Best Directions

To get off this desert, follow the any mirage
till you get to Bone Valley, turn down the nearest dune
and go all the way to the elevator. Push the button
for the rooftop penthouse. There you will see a lavender
wigwam under a plastic magnolia. There may be a neon
moon or a series of blinking stars. For some
reason there is a beaded door (not the traditional
rawhide). If you detect the odor of sage burning
then it is safe to enter. Otherwise wait for someone
in warpaint to scan you for metal objects.
You must be good with your hands to communicate
here, although dance also works well.
Whatever you do, keep your mouth shut.
The older women do not like to hear strangers speak.
Neither do their men.
You will find beer.

Blood Words

Shoes off in another direction. Can't keep track
of the changes. Traveling with a jazz chart. Horns.

Under seal, I can tell you only approximately how
I feel. Vague as want and as exact as you expect-

who knows a lack? It's all locked doors. & I want
to paint them black. That must be rust, or someone

bled all over these bricks. Every death is a relief.
Wow, what a rational belief. Put that on the map.

We find you sitting in the cab of your pickup listening
to Manic Zebra while bees pollinate the orange grove.

Somewhere your illegitamate children are working
in the onion fields. The banker drinks ruby martinis.

Missing Pixels

There was pile
Of hard drives
Stacked by the door.

Jill lost her I.D.
In the backseat
Of a two-door.

She carried a purse
Full of glitter bottles
And postcards.

At the height geese fly
They are always
In a fog.

Everywhere you
Could hear honk.
It's a sexy pose.

The Superstitious Prayer

Walking eyes, the painting hangs silent and still. My

imagination moves it. The milk pours. The dragon dies.

The king coughs. The sunflower looses its color and

dries. Ran over a nail in the snow, now the tire is flat.

I photograph a famous bench. I would have take your

picture, but you could not lift your veil. I understand.

Children march bare-kneed to the sound of a tin drum.

In the background you can hear paper being shredded.

We know how to learn. Any dufus can change a tire

and/or feed the chickens. Only gods can play the tuba.

Great-grandfather Rice taught us to Sake, so what’s

it to you? I’ve seen champagne bubble in the sunset.

The Iron-Wheeled Tractor

What a beautiful icon. Is it of you? I think it could be.

I know you’ve been worshipped. Holy-Moly, woman.

A million little virus can kill an ox. Cold wet feet

make my nose stop up. If you loved me you’d rub

them. As for the ox, he’s lying in state. Your icon

cries tears of real blood. I double-cross myself,

once for each thief. We’ll party like communist,

another five year plan. Plow under the bottom line.

The Agra-chemical company designs biotech

plants and marvelously proportioned minarets.

There’ll be trouble in the stubble after the boss

finds out who got his goat. I love you, little girl.

33. Simple Vowels

Selfish reasons, when something, like a flight of steps,
injures you, it is for selfish reasons. Things want attention.

Strange though, for them to be real you cannot think
about them. Except insofar as thought is an experience.

Thought is not innocence. They tell us angels dance on
the head of a pin, but do they ever get to the point!

I've embarassed myself. I make cinnamon toast in the
toaster oven. I take off my socks and turn the TV on.

I cleaned house and ironed shirts, even a linen table
cloth. The boss called and I told her about snow devils.

I cooked red rice and black beans. The person in the
back bedroom has been quiet for over a month.

32. Molecules

There are two things that we have in common. We are both
full of something, and we think that the color blue is a sky.

Does this bus have far to go? Ants and gnats plan a picnic.
We are invited, and that is why I have this mayonnaise.

Help me with this, will you? Instructions, directions, parts
lists, a simple tool, loss in translation and enlightenment.

Thank you. I want to talk some. I think there are mountains.
There bath is ready. The lecture goes on without me.

Knowledge lives in a ghosts. Birds fly over the snow.
Drummers sit quietly in their vans and wiggle their eyelids.

Tomorrow may be more real than we want it to be
judging by the sound of automatic gunfire. Communicate.

31. Metaphor Is Different

The idea comes like a bus, always a little late. You wait.
You finger the fare. You warm coins and sheild your eyes.

You want to talk some more. Everyone is between class.
Everywhere is unwalkable grass. Perfumes waft like a girl.

The sun speaks, the wind gestures to the trees. The clues
come unglued. Seems I hear French, a boy's converstation.

This composition takes on the characteristic of a striped
awning under which we find ourselves standing yawning.

I feel alien in this history. You should be more comfortable
having time to think about as you do. Guess I just hung up.

Man, if I could understand how your lips work, how your
hands make signs when you pause, I could fingure it out.

Notes to a Textbook of Poetry

30. What Thing Is

My memories are used. You chewed pixels and spat them out
like a kind of code, not the orange chair but the word for it.

Here we sit in divine love. A smoke screen divides the meaning
from the ending. That really sounds to me. That really sounds too.

Me, simply a reflection, incipient intermittency reificated in static.
This icecube melts. This drink dilutes. Yes, you are really you.

That's the end. If you didn't have time to finish/vanish worry.
Don't worry. Eyes in the woods follow you down the path.

You come to the source. It looks like a boulder, a large stone.
It must have been here a long time by the growth of moss.

Take a picture if you think you can pay for it. Fake an image
if you have the memory for it. I can smell the rock. Hear it.

As She Thinks She Is

Blue-dress woman,
I feel your heels
sky-high as thighs,
and the valley
where the railroad runs,
all locomotive as spawn.

I'm your T-shirt boy,
ticket to the east coast
and sunrise glory.
Believe. I have pearls
and rubber bullets.

Diamond hallucinations
like Lucy in the pits,
the water gurggles,
falls, turns to mists.
Silk-sweet woman,
caress me with your hair.

I know your inner girl
dolling around with me,
I lift my wings, flutter,
as you dance the thing.
Red-jeweled heart-throb,
break me where it hurts.

ESTIMATE-ZERO

I wish I was a hippie in tight with gawd.
I'd die on a cross to save some mawb.
And iffn' I was best peopl'd aplawd.
Where's the venue? O Lawrd? Lawrd!
Yawn me a heaven and lay me in sawd.
Smoke me a Bible. Unchain my dawg.
I wish I was tight, & all us's odd. Awe. Ah. A...
Daddy.

PERFECT

Ran-
Hours as an owl

So fill
A box

Essays make even
All arms

Try

Try, don't the poor hide?

How near I am
All ink-brown and sweet

"Line referances mind of bees"

In case of spill
Cry

Caramel sticks it

Roar, fans call the man at play.

I've been invited

(The public in the street

Hours parade off in direction of odors

Theory being from "they're"

(Police tickets and a cop

Thunder's a angry knot

Yes, we drive through the park,
Insisting, on signs. Feel the progress

Foyer?



Morphed from The EFFECT
by David Dodd Lee posted at
http://seventeenfingeredpoetrybird.blogspot.com/ 01-11-11

After a Romance

When I met up with Lord Byron
He was reading Jack Spicer
At the Spanish Cafe. We drank
Exotic waters. He described
Love as a concrete-blue bird.

The waiter mistook my English
For German and brought me
A steamy bowl of brains in broth.
Byron couldn't take his eyes
Off the toreador-looking youth

Waiting by the door for girls.
I had just finished reading
A long article about the status
Of critiques and literary code.
I was thinking about misconstrued

Meanings and their importance
As a creative act. Byron wanted
To wipe his feet on Portugal.
I think he must have been in love.
The noon skyline reflected

In my soup. I spooned rooftops
And slurped radio antennas.
Of course, Jack was comatose
On the elevator, clouds leaking
Our of his pockets. But Bird

And Alex know all this. Okay.
Money for a taxi's in the box
By the stove. Come ASAP.
If you know where Jim is,
Tell him it was always too late.

The Slaves Retreat


Eye blank in trout
And fin. The rot of cash ring
Is token. Fools

Save leaves on shelves.
Chalk mouth of this turf,
New gal-o-wine.

Why rivers should bathe
Those of us who teach:
Growlin' at the sky. My

Hut on the high-
Lines comes near to the
Notion. Again,

Fake. A cycle won't make
The decision. A dozen,
Say, "Piss where he's

At peace, a train station."
We hop the tram.
Ivy brought a pot of lime

To drink. Dandy,
What's not to give? Con-
Ceptual rotation.

Fig, man. "Dear War, we
Climb over Heroes."
And carrion.


_________________________

Morphed After David Dodd Lee's
The Waves Repeat 01-05-11
Seventenfingeredpoetrybird.blogspot.com