Barren

(an imitation of Lucie Brock-Broido)

Throughout four acres of empty trees, a single mourning dove is cooing
For amaranth from its half-built nest, echoing between humid sheets of fog.

In the parlor of the manor, a young woman in a worn dress
Of black velvet twines her fingers in her lap and pretends not to cry

Over the empty cradle, the tiny leather shoes, her breasts
That ache in vain.

The Bearer

The Bearer
(an imitation of William Olsen's “Gods and Goddesses”)

Balmy evening when we heard soles of tennis shoes slapping sidewalks while we sat on our tiny hill of a front lawn ignoring the pressure of brittle grass into our palms and watched stupidly as our friend’s only son with arms full of something limp and awkward approached us with heavy breathing and sweaty limbs and on the verge of dampening dead fur with teenage tears said that he was sorry even though there was nothing he could do but watch as the car ran over our last dog.

Thursday

(a loose imitation of “Equus” by Austin Hummell)

She sits in the bathtub, watching
her soft brown hair pool around her, the brunette
strands of seaweed clinging to foam,
her face distorted in the faucet -
a silver reflection that she watches while
saying softly one two three four five,
all the way to sixty, and then starts again,
until twelve minutes have passed,
and she says to herself he is late, two hours late.

She has never worn lipstick,
because her mother taught her to play
the clarinet at age eight,
and she has since kept the instrument
immaculate, playing almost every evening,
strengthening her embouchure, pressing
pale fingers onto silver keys as if she were
dialing the phone to reach someone
of great importance - gently but with purpose.
Silent evenings, she would turn the house
into a vessel for the notes she created,
each one played with a subconscious,
yearning hope that it would bring her father home early.

The front door opens with such force
that the metal doorknob kisses the wall, hard,
leaving a bruise on the wallpaper. Her knees
jerk, sending a small wave over the edge of the porcelain,
and she barely avoids tumbling while impulsively
grabbing her green robe instead of a towel.
She thanks her forgetfulness for leaving the
keys in the car, and slides barefoot between rose bushes
and through the back screen door, letting it slam.

Miss Dashed Hopes

(an imitation of Laura Kasischke's poetry)

To have been the meat in the jaws of a wolf. To have been a handkerchief tied around a headache, set on fire (while the cat
gave birth to two kittens,

both dead).
To base the outcome

of your romance
on a raven’s beak. Or the way the bedsheet crumples

between kneecaps and nightmares.
(Do not bother her, her eyes are postcards,
she buys things in pairs.) To have been the seatbelt
that saved the child. To have been

the metal frame of an umbrella, stabbed into cake. Or the yellow of hair
snared in a brush. Like the nest

of wasps in the cabinet. Such concentrated worry. (Will it ever
end?) Twenty songs in one night. All the trumpets and bass drums
sounding out

their final notes against the dusk.
(I’ll beat on this drum ‘till I’m dead)

Once, I heard my brother punch a hole in the wall we shared. My father returned
his birthday gift, unopened. Once, someone stared
and asked, “Did you see that shooting star?”

It was gone,
but I looked anyway,
as if it could have frozen, just for me. To have been

that star, and to have become the black sky.

Marc Bolan Stands In Line at the Airport Behind Piet Mondrian

[an imitation of Patrick Lawler's poetry]

1.
I prefer swans to airplanes, but since safety precautions for traveling have increased, I went with Delta.

The top of my top hat is a mirror, for those taller than me. It makes being looked down upon more bearable.

Predicting one’s own death is pretty impressive. I know you don’t believe in the color green, but the way the trees came crashing through my windshield might’ve changed your mind. Talk about the fundamentals of nature.
I heard you’ve just begun to extend your lines past the edge of the canvas, and here I am getting glitter on your bowtie.
My problem is my imagination; it won’t all fit in my suitcase. Perhaps you could take a few Ziploc bags of it with you.

2.
I can help the next person in line.

Will you help me roll,
Help me roll, to my soul

Will you be checking any luggage for this flight?

Ride it on out like a bird in the sky-ways
Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam

Here’s your boarding pass, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave your tiger at the gate.

I ain't no square with my corkscrew hair



3.
It’s hard to make a tea party out of peanuts and ginger ale.
I have eaten chocolate with Ringo Starr. I have seen him cry while driving a car. I don’t think the situations were related.

I ain’t no square

Arizona's Monsoon

[imitation of Davis McCombs's poetry]

He was looking for a new experience, something
that could develop and be held
up to the light of his memory;
pieces of Coconino County to be remembered alongside
the familiar flora and fauna of Bluefield and Greenbrier.
The summer was shifting, and the sky had suddenly grown
thick with clouds that hugged the vast horizon,
their color reminiscent of the contusion that had formed
on his daughter’s pale forehead the day before.
He quickened his pace towards Antelope Canyon,
the deep, underground chasm beckoning;
dust-devils beginning to form around the tourist
attraction’s entry. He stopped
to look at the darkening empyrean again, and descended
into the sandstone’s curves; the narrow, twisting
hallways were now empty except for the brilliant bursts
of lightning that skimmed the surface of the walls,
exposing the canyon to a much brighter degree
than his camera’s flash could hope to achieve.
The desert stood silent for twenty seconds;
he began to count each moment in a whisper, feeling
very alone, before the clouds’ underbellies were unchained
and every grain of sand was rearranged,
each seed of the pinyon was washed away.

Eighteen

[imitation of Jan Beatty's poetry]

Eighteen
In my black Chuck Taylors,
I walk the crack
of the sidewalk; a miniature Route 66
tearing through cement slabs:
California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas.
Phoenix never gets below sixty-five,
even in January.
And oh,
how I crave that heat -

the just-opened-oven-door-warmth, sweat-running-down-the-small-of-your-back, scorching-waves-beating-off-concrete, teenage-backseat-heat.

We used to gather on the golf course at night, sliding fingers under belt buckles and zippers; drinking until enough people threw up/the sprinklers came on/the sun came up.
I think Tyler and Brittney are having sex in the bushes.
John just left with those two freshman girls - he said he had a video camera.

Wear your tightest jeans, it’s Friday night.

Playlist 1

Playlist from Mayday Dance Party,
Jan. 18th '08

[DJ Paper Doll]

Blocalicious (DJ Schmolli Remix) - Bloc Party/Fergie
Pure Magic - Girl Talk
Bird Flu - M.I.A.
Sexual Eruption - Snoop Dogg
Touch Me - Spank Rock
Just What I Needed (Tittsworth Edit) - The Cars
Giddy Up - The Hives
Blue Orchid (High Contrast Remix) - White Stripes
Girlfriend - TTC

Romantic Rights (Marczech Makuziak Remix) - DFA 1979
Jigglin' (Tittsworth Edit) - Ying Yang Twins/Switch
Wild Thing - Tone-Loc
Genius Of Love - Tom Tom Club
Guilt By Association - Louis XIV
I Got Grapes - Nump feat. M.I.A.
Alphabet Man - Greenskeepers
Skitzo Dancer (Justice Remix) - Scenario Rock