would rather
some opaque lines
on the weather
but this sky
is just blue
featureless
no purchase
and this feels
too heavy
to be limbo
June 21
too on the nose
this billboard chic
predictable lines
that draw the eye away
from slimming food stamps
like horizontal stripes
this summer’s hottest trend
is manufactured outrage
sashay up a gangway
work that image
hell work on a travel visa
it’s fine for you
I guess
white
this summer’s hottest trend
is cognative dissonance
justify, ignore, deny,
or change
June 19
Test out the rhetoric:
Animal. Vermin. Infest.
Inundation or inflammation,
fiery little tongues
that lick up kindling?
The intent is visceral,
in secare
antennae, thorax, not of us,
Kafka-esque, one day man
and one day less than,
mere question of taxonomy,
Insecta, Pterygota, Isoptera, Blattodea,
Class, Subclass, Suborder,
Subhuman, Superior Orders
(didn’t fly at Nuremberg).
Consider the words like Solenopsii,
fire ants, no, too late, like their bite:
The damage is the warning.
June 18
See the dust
encrusted with dry rock
and you don’t think
flood zone,
water scouring sage brush
instead of brittle wind,
but it’s happened.
Block ice slouches
in the glass, dessert heat
demostrates the facility
of state change.
See a lazy wheeling hawk,
think gyre, gyre,
getting wider–
do things really fall apart?
Or just slump forward
in apathy?
Define a hole:
a lack of matter–
evil is nothing
but the absence
of empathy.
Say evil is nothing, see,
evil is nothing.
The hawk flies off.
Say in Bethlehem,
oh, whatever.
Say a clear blue sky
as if it belies
the existence of rain,
and when that hillside goes
pretend to be surprised–
say it, say it,
it couldn’t happen here.
June 16
a bird picks at gravel
under the grape vines
they are producing this year
green-hued pearls
small and bitter
nothing much
but grit and potential
the birds won’t touch them
shrieking away
in a burnt out pine
the violence of nature
is arbitrary
unlike ours
familias unidas no divididas
*
and when they were departed behold the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream saying arise and take the young child and his mother and flee to Egypt
when he arose he took the young child and his mother by night and departed into Egypt
now the LORD had said unto Abram get thee out of thy county
and Abram went down into Egypt to sojourn there for famine was grievous in the land
thou shalt neither vex a stranger nor oppress him for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt
if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land ye shall not vex him
the stranger that dwells will you shall be unto you as one born among you and thou shalt love him as thyself for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt
thou shalt not oppress a hired servant that is poor and needy whether he be of thy brethren or of strangers that are in thy land within thy gates
thou shalt not pervert the judgement of the stranger
cursed be he that perverteth the judgement of the stranger
do no wrong do no violence to the stranger
a Syrian ready to perish was my father
if ye will not hear these words I swear by myself saith the LORD that this house shall become a desolation
Jehová guarda á los extranjeros; al huérfano y á la viuda levanta; y el camino de los impíos trastorna
*
it’s cherry picking season
*
the orchards are lush and full
of migrant workers
and various cultivars
of the same tree
the distinctions ours
trees draped with silver mylar
to scare off birds
dazzling in the late sun
a beat up pick up trucks along
on a frontage road
parallels the highway
until the highway turns
continues on past
the river bend
converted warehouse churches
dusty roadside stands
with dirt cheap prices
and white paper bags
of Raniers like sunsets
of Bings like blood spots
the sun dropping low
into the jagged canyon
split open like a wound
to accomodate passage
June 15
rolled the windows down
at Rocky Reach
sweet mineral leach
subtle evidence
of a brief downpour
low evening glow
chiaroscuro foothills
it never quite gets flat here
and the road goes
right up the rocks
and the rocks
come right down
on the road
the river vermeil
and the orchards lush
and the long day finally arriving
June 12
gray lake with regatta
with parenthetical sails
derivation of wind
rain but barely
maybe not even
one wonders at
the sudden immediacy of it all
immanent and imminent–
an answer unasked for
raises questions
June 11
what a cavernous hole
this asking why
what a tenous stance
this not asking
strange clarity
that comes at night
as the room expands
like it is holding its breath
June 8
Per your instructions
I am getting under this chicken’s skin
with pats of compound butter,
stowing the remaining herb twigs,
onion, lemon, in the body’s dark cavity,
cutting slits where the neck
used to be, trussing it
with its own legs, carnal,
barbaric, delicious–
Tonight is the dinner party,
the only cohesive theme
this newfound religion of decadence,
oh we went in for truffle oil (yeah I know)
triple crème cheese,
the fattiest pork bits.
Still in the industry back then,
the back of the house shows up first,
plus the one cool barista,
these two pastry chefs
that claim they’re not a thing
(they have a pretty sweet kid now)
the bread baker and his wine
then some French girls I met after
my long sad tour of their country,
somebody’s sous,
his lushest of lobster rolls,
his roomate I am seeing, I don’t know why,
I wanted him.
Back then I was better with the mise,
more precise with my cuts,
each big new thing still
shiny with potential,
although after a bottle or four
I did almost take my thumb off,
wielding the breadknife like a scimitar,
the blood merlot,
everyone pausing to assess, admire,
my date looking ill, it didn’t work out.
Why birds, why roast anything
in a brick apartment in mid July?
Youthful exuberance, we leave nothing
behind but crumbs and bones,
dirty dishes in drawers,
Tolouse and Albi drunk in the kitchen
picking the duck carcasses clean.
The baker gets really trashed,
and prior to passing out on the couch
he empties his pocket’s contents
on to the coffee table
in profound demonstration of something
he can’t coherently explain,
each paltry coin laid out in a gleaming constellation.
Our stations are fixed, are waiting for us,
we’ll both search for composure
in the walk-in tomorrow,
I’ll take out butter to soften,
tuck rag into apron, begin again,
sweet, umami, salty, sour,
and the hard one, bitter–
I’ll supreme citrus to avoid the pith,
mince garlic, sauté it, burn it, toss it,
too young, too impatient, running it too hot,
eventually, I just get the hell out.
These days I throw chicken thighs
in a pan, no recipe, you taught me well:
make the onions sweat,
the rendered skin release,
build the fond, deglaze,
coax more from less,
and I know better now
just how things compound,
for better and for worse.
.
.
.
.
RIP Bourdain. It was a damn good bird.
June 6
[Political Exercise]
When I was three
I would argue with my dad
Any number is bigger
than any number
childish tautology
there isn’t anything
that insistence can’t make so
just ignore all fiddling
any acrid smells, you know
they boo you when they love you
OPTIONAL POETRY 