Meter Theatre

The gas pump performs
ritual sacrifice; I play the
resigned chaperone of
synthetic intercourse as
nozzle meets tank.

It's as American as
anything else.

Revival

The New Romantic

That trailer in the upper
peninsula, your factory
job and my unwritten
novel. Your mustache
and my bad cooking.
The mailbox is always
empty. The bathroom
door does not latch.
I can hear you piss
from the kitchen; it
sounds like summer.

The Bowls

The too high cupboards were largely empty, save
my grandmother's mixing bowls in reach
on the lowest shelf.

One small. Blue.
One medium. Red.
One large. Green.

Behind metal doors, hiding lonesome space,
bowls holding secrets and holding still -
regal foot guards of the rainbow.

I have lived with too little color.

Arms

Comes a day we forget
what the hell our arms
are for.

Minneapolis, One.

Bleak lunch, the grass punch,
the grace she lacks.

Words you spit, this world is
too big, bored in a minute.

Exiled in reading, Indian evening,
alone in her eating.

And, the premature kiss, old
news, new list.