3 poems

Been writing bunch of poems lately. I don’t know, somehow or other, doing the book Everything Neon with Marginalia, really got me into poetry mode. So, been into the mode of fucking around and writing a bunch of new poems, but not so much about living here in the city. Instead, been working on a collection of poems all about growing up in a residential suburban development just off a two lane highway and being excited beyond belief to go ELSEWHERE. About drifting off. About shooting off into space on a jet pack.  So, here are 3 poems …

Chipper

“so so SO terrible,” she sets the newspaper down

“what?”

“a kid died, couple blocks over,

on Mallard Ave.”

“how”

“eaten by a chipper.”

“what the hell is a chipper?”

as if it was an animal, like: look out

a chipper is loose in the development

they’re as big as a jaguar and hungrier

“a woodchipper” she says

“damn”

“he worked for the tree service”

I looked down into my shredded wheat

she folded the paper, as if

the paper was cursed

and so we went for a drive

at first pretending that maybe

we weren’t going to look at the yard

but that’s where the car wanted to go

there was no stopping it

yes, exactly true, just a few blocks over

it was a small blue house

the yard was wrapped in

yellow crime scene tape

nobody home, too much shade

no grass, all moss and lichen

a sad lawn to look at

the chipper was still out there

it said ‘Travis Tree Service’

on the side of the machine

“there’s no blood”

“thankfully”

from the car, we scanned

everything we could see:

the siding on the house, the ground,

the machine, the leaves in the tree

“the people who cleaned up the blood

did a very good job”

“paper said he got his shirt sleeve

caught and was pulled in”

“that’s how it always happens”

“it stopped halfway down, the machine,

there’s a safety … by then it was too late”

“mos def”

a green car passed by at a crawl

then a group of boys on bikes

went past and pointed, but kept pedaling

finally a cop car pulled up, and we watched

the officer get out and duck under the

yellow tape of the crime scene

he walked around the mossy yard

for a bit, just looking, staring off

then he sat on the steps and stared some more

“what do you think he’s looking for?”

“he’s probably doing what we’re doing”

she started the car, the cop didn’t even

look over, his eyes had become fixed

on something caught in the branches

of the tree

I’m not sure what.

and so be it.

Walking By the Kitchen In Just My Socks

the refrigerator door

was left open just a crack

no one notices for a thousand years

the light was off

life is as exciting

as frozen blueberries

that used to be wild.

art sucks dick

have left behind

blue petals of life force

have slept on the roof

in my mortal clothes

have been polite to

armies of magician’s doves

slipped off, high

just passing

art levels status

here’s to many more

Tuesday nights

getting plastered

but first I have to

take the garbage

out.