four poems

I.

the bottomlessness, so unsadly
shown:

oh ocean, (not
that golden gate smack fire) ---
though totally your choice
need i sweet say more?

(I SAID NOYESNO
IT SHOULDNT MATTER WHAT I MEAN)

i talk to you in pencil, great gum
numbers (five it is! my fingers
all my leasable webbing)
not between middle & ring
but two of equal length- think
beneath the table

no no no no no
just because it is no one
does not mean it is not you (i mean my god
{GOD!} who else earned it? here's where the poem
becomes the praise song dammit will you trust me
when i say PAID & take the empty jar
with the red label? It's totally clear, don't be afraid
let's be snowplows on a summer morning

II.

talking to you in pencil
again-- god where'd i put that gum i meant
the other door- more specifically I meant
FIVE- (i.e., more) it is my fingers,
all my leasable webbing lines
not between middle (oh oh oh) and ring
think down more, think
between the mines

no no no, no no,
just because it is no one does not mean it is not you
(i mean my god, who else earned it?) insert praises here
whatever
what i really mean is not paid creatively nor
in an opportune manner (HA HA HA yes or no??)
OK is not an option, I'll get back (someday)
to you about it, OR you could just trust me
here- I swear I'm clear, you're paid, I fear
I'm afraid but only like of snowplows on a summer morning,
it's just labelling, I swear
the side effects are pleasant indeed

(November, 2006)

III.

was that all, was that really all?

no no no, you'll take offense,
be sensible, straightforward,
without pretense, but i feel the cool cloth against me
and it is rare.
with my own lamp staining me,
swath me in some dream. i want seamlessness
if you'll wither me, wear me out.

who bid this high? what was sold?
i feel the cloth below me, and it's cold.
with my silver rails, with my lime
i flush these thoughts
be in bed by midnight, be awake by nine
as i ought

reduced to a white map,
my hapless bidding, of sensitive places,
unfolded matter-of-factly, like cloth, while I was distracted.
things just unfold that way, ma'am- i can't explain
the mundane aspects but even to myself
i keep this apple out of reach

no shock no shock no after-effect

IV

my silver rails, my lime
this metal table, i try to unclench my jaw.

a map of sensitive places, my face
too like my own, a folded paper,
the next thing i know

(to be stained by my own lamp!
to put light in these places!)

no no no, you'll take offense,
be sensible, straightforward,
without pretense, but i feel the cool cloth against me
and it is rare. look here, you'll snap
but i'll wither, i'll wear.

(April, 2008)