The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Of the Too Much Muchness

Handmade shark fin mooncake
strewn among the warheads,
red uni-ball pens, jolly ranchers
of my blue-eyed girls, and me,
with a hibiscus lemon tea burn
soothed by the Trader Joe’s box
of frozen chicken tikka masala
with its robust cream sauce
and cumin-flavored basmati rice.

I have been known to sprawl naked
on a lion skin in the good air of the alps,
to swim in the tears of gods,
to write of sunsets and pussies in emails,
to be fed green olives on a wooden boat,
yes, I have sipped Rosé in Old Town Prague,
but for what? The too much muchness
is too much for even the too much me,
all that hunger written in Sanskrit
across my face. Might I mention
the desert of my soul here, or would that
make you turn away? Where I come from,
even in summer, we burned our trash.

O, honey-tongued, yellow-bellied
Cheerwine sipper, slip slippery through me.
Yea, though we walk through the valley
of the shadows of the things, undress me,
with me, about me, beyond me, beneath
this sky so populated with birds and steel,
let us lay our muchness yonder.

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Solitude

 

“The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.”
–John Ashbery

Late July

Sandy razor clams

Rinsed by hand in the warm sea

Again summer is coming

Again summer will go

Already I’ve forgotten you

Translucence (10)

but no one counts the sky

do they?

Translucence (7)

you don’t feel anymore
says the book

Translucence (4)

it is embarrassing
to be this person

Transluscence (3)

it is hard to pretend
that bodies don’t matter
harder still that they do

Pop

went the weasel

Mating for Life

After the wedding, the biplanes flew low.

Aging (9)

So you’re not a Buddhist, she says.