The day the President got shot
happy. Mrs Mott did not smile.
She brot us a sentence from her serious voice
He got shot in the chest
with a bullet just now
a minute ago,
- got shot.
The class paused less than as long as it seemed.
And I don't know what silence does
in the twitch of a teacher's lip
or maybe someone knew
- knew, you know,
that teachers lie sometimes
to little kids,
every little kid gave Mrs Mott applause,
and lafs and whistles and even "all rite" and stuff
(an offer, maybe - maybe hope - you know,
that everything was really O-K, you know).
Mrs Mott looked like she ate
a chunk of baker's chocolate, thinking
it was sweet
when it was not, and told us
to be ashamed. We were
not allowed to play at recess, only sit
and think about it.
But I did not think, I thot
of a mountain bike instead: red with seven gears.
After school this kid asked me "did you clap?"
I told him that I didn't hear and clapped when
the President got better. and I got a blue bike.
Buns In The Oven
God's Acre, Salem, North Carolina
In Carolina, where
grass is still
green in long wide swarthy scissored patches
(and marble buildings rise like [roll-on] deodorant balls)
lung and all
other sorts of [peripheriquitious] machines [for
eating and shitting (and) things
and at one corner of its living
lives a field,
(most green,) a field of marble
curious people look for names
like theirs, and breathe in air from
they scuffed into that (what
could be called), that dormant
-people garden (later
air sucked from the corners of their think-
less mouths which say "hmm" inside
and "hmm" alone
On that corner of Salem, God's (twice
as big as town) Acre posts a sign outside its inner
gate, and states (unquotely)"
(after, by entering, one has agreed
to no roller blading, biking, jogging,
and [in particular] all unseemly behavior)
The Rules For Being Dead
(i.e., 1. Be Moravian
2. Girls on one side, Boys on the other
3. Nobody gets a bigger slab
"beneath white marble
squares in non-Euclid
-ian rolls of field
green as those who die
so that walkers thru
the garden (dor
-mant) see the
inside the sign-
's cased glass,
the beige-translucent spider glove which used to be
a spider, and exo-
skeletonly hangs on "lo"
where tacks with heads
like dented blood-plump ticks, two tacks (bent
and iron, baby's-finger long
) curl brown at the glass case
base, fallen from
only the left
Upper people walk, and look, and leave. And
one person stomps
half smoked or so,
on Salem Road:
a sacrifice to those (or so
) who keep the dead alive.
You keep a pile of worries by your door,
the shredded glass and lint and paperclips
you should have taken care of long before
I asked you what it was. "It's nothing more--"
you start. I break in with my "hmm"ing lips
"You keep a pile of worries by your door....
What do you need to save your worries for?"
"It's nothing more than your... those burning ships
you should have taken care of. Long before
I piled up lint or paperclips or ink or
bad luck, you barked commands thru paper lips.
You keep a pile of worries by your door,
too, you know." I know.
and knew before
I saw his pile and we snapped our plastic quips:
"You should have...."
"Taken care of long before;
no lint, no ships" I think, yet mumble "I'm sure
you die, at least -- don't drown -- from burning ships.
You keep a pile of worries by your door
you should have taken care of long before."
"I am not overwhelmed by your presents; merely whelmed.
I do not need a convertible turbo Porsche,
nor a pervertible blow-up doll, nor--"
"Hey, don't shush me! ... nor --"
or not, I would rather no one know the gifts
I've given you. So complain, but softly. Please."
"What? Are you ashamed of Feta Cheese
from Greece, leather from Italy, face- and butt-lifts
from California, ties from Tieland --"
"- Thailand, and rings for all six fingers on my hand?"
The scene shifts. A dagger glints to appease
a four-toad man with pudgy morals. Sand
drifts sticky down theis of a whore sh-
ivered, curled, in the beach, with blood upon her knees.
I placed an egg in Tennessee
and everything around it grew
and made all bird and bush and wing
symmetric as a yodeled song.
And for this egg, this gray and smooth,
the wild warped
and wiggled veins to touch
the shell -- the slugs, the grass, the moon -
and stayed that way, as long as sun,
tho egg (and shell) dissolved (as well).
The eggs I mean are not refined,
like nothing else in Tennessee.