THE DOCTOR IS IN

something magnetic or dyspeptic

attracts me to psychiatric

types, or the sons and daughters

of these head doctors. i have friends

born into the mirrored self-

contemplation of being the scion

of a parent you can rely on

to dissect more than protect.

let he who is without

sin cast the first aspersion.

like lucy in her five-cent booth

the doctor is in.

and oddly they are often

pulled into the profession

themselves, broken

parts hell

bent on breaking

the pieces back

together again.

WONDER

reading favorite guys

like judd and creeley

writing how they build

architecture and poetry and nothing

they say makes

any sense to me.

it's not in theory

but in practice

they get to me.

maybe when minimalists try

to get expansive and shit

their hearts aren't in it.

it's only in the open

question, the middle-

ground of wonder where

the addled, searching mind

can for once recline that

these men and their ideas reside:

in words struck stationary and statues

set solidly on solitary expanses of land

where no one was ever

intended to stand.

PEDIGREE

from within my familial

fear of tardy and doing it

wrong i failed somehow

to foresee a future full

of mistake latency

disguised as social currency.

i am in a constant state

of high anxiety and addled

perplexity.

CLUTCH (for Eileen Hess)

i am not a world
traveler by choice;
my entire universe
could be contained

within my wife's
purse. i wouldn't venture
anywhere if i could
just curl up and live
in there.

there's gum and make-up,
mints and money, a museum
devoted to my honey. if only
there was room enough

i'd happily remain inside her clutch.

POOPEREL (for Laurel Hess)

my nephews can't say fart or crap;
they toot and poop instead.
their mother has it in her head

there's something cruder
about a farter than a tooter,
and a crapper than a pooper.

as an uncle i submit

(while crying bullshit

on her limits!)
but it scarcely matters

what i think.

everyone knows

poops and farts
by any other name

still carry the same

awesome stink.

CARDINAL (for Karen Lafer Haithcock)

i’ll be honest:
i don't notice

birds sitting around
in the sky or in trees

or think about why
(as you do) they sing
or what enables them to
swim across a breeze. i have

scarcely grey memories of this
or that bird backgrounding some scene or other
with an incidental tweet or flutter.

but there is something memorable,
i can’t lie, about cardinals
flying low over new snow,
as if the air were alive and full

of blood and fear maybe,
and too purposeful to dry,
my dear, and too beautiful
to die, baby.

OF PORN AND POETRY

take off your clothes
and capture your body
exposed and before long
everybody will go and care
there, wherever. but erect

your thoughts instead
to some blog, taut
with intent to reveal
how naked you
feel about truly bare
areas like your soul
and where it goes...

and nobody comes.

poetry rhymes
with futility and pandering
is strategy.

BUSTED

oh arrogant
ghost of social
nights blindly spent --

how it went:

entwined, the holy echoes
of girls, imagined
moans of misspent

youth. egos together
like gelatin, nerves
quivering, flesh left

exposed to the search-
lights. police, action, "i only
pried her top off

moments before
you arrived."

COLD COMFORT

dearest snow-
storm: did you know

someday it will be
warm again? or so
the weatherman said.

and when that day comes
you'll be dead.

so paralyze us
and freeze our toes --
someday we'll drink
you from a hose.