ANOTHER
SATURDAY NIGHT, READING POETRY
(For
Anthony Seidman)
Nickel
spurs stab her bleeding waist,
the
one stumbling to her knees
in
freezing rain before her apartment building.
Silver
bullets vibrate their lazy chambers
like
southern Arizona bees
emerging
from summer hives.
An
antler of sensibility, perhaps
a
mortally wounded verb, or an adjective
doubling
as archeologist
sifting
our sad lives through a screen.
Then
a disturbance, an earthquake of sorts,
erupts
from the floor
of
your poem.
And
the rest is history.
Sulfur Sunrise
Sulfur
sunrise,
hybrid
ladybug,
adolescent
male, no doubt.
Sulfur
sunrise,
wings
flicking black dew
from
the night before.
Sulfur
sunrise,
fingerprints
on file
down
at headquarters.
Sulfur
sunrise,
despite
what the pessimists say,
sulfur
sunrise
requires
your naked attention,
your
absinthe birthday suit,
total
freedom of expression, if you will.
Sulfur
sunrise
whose
Rickenbacker guitar strings imitate
the
clickety-clack of rickety rails
between
19th Century Boston and Philadelphia.
Sulfur
sunrise,
bask
at your ease.
Sulfur
sunrise,
a
simple slice of day-old melon, if you please.
Ah,
but sulfur sunrise,
the
angels of mercy won’t bother you
if
you’re baptized
by
sulfur sunrise.
That
is, until the moon sashays
in
with her granite confidence,
über
starched breasts
and
vagina of sobbing grenades.
