a watermelon, broken,
black seeds wet in the dirt;
the shock of a bloody nose,
rust stains settling on your shirt.

Pollination

The spring wind grinding
two pink irises together:
your vaguely lesbian poetry
free of honeybees.

On Illinois Back Roads

Driving near dusk in cornfields
outside Effingham last fall

picket fences dangle in the breeze:

the space between an infant's teeth.

Strolling (a revision)

She strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds
hiding her face like a lace veil.
Only, her lace is flannel,
and the flagged ends of the scarf
dangle down past her knees.
She strolls alone,
the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines a new family portrait
for each building, all hanging in mosaic
along the walls: star-strung and black;
new blocks becoming new wings,
she builds a slow-growing mansion
for her slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,
the sound of her legs scratching across the sidewalk
reminding her of an army of boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; thinking of her night-mansion
she imagines bedrooms. She strolls alone,
draughting at red lights and cross walks,
each passing car a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her,
inches away. She strolls alone,
breathing deep into her scarf
while her eyes water
against the chill of the opposing breeze;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians
and the relationship of mutual ignorance
she shares with them. She strolls alone
arms cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the empty stillness swallowing
the around-her.

Diner Dinner

Missing the Southwest
customs that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork

around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I form meat hypotheses

staring at my plate
and decide ignoring "meat"
might save my stomach.

Bored with side dishes,
I dissolve into lessons
well-learned living in

Texas: grilling steaks
in marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:

I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,

anticipating
my teeth melting deep and slow
in earthy flavor;

tongue stuck collapsing
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,

my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
between tossing tips

his grandfather knew,
and failing to hide his pride
feigning disinterest.

Ripped back into now,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"

securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,

"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."

A moment; a newspaper abandoned, folded
on the floor in a classroom, headlines
readable: a veteran sits smiling in
Class A's and "honored with reception."
Something about his suit summons your shame.

He, a marine, your father, an army engineer,
identical only in service. Still, you smell
the five o'clock cologne of sweat and
cigarette smoke. You bounce to the fridge
grabbing him a beer. Men earn beer
with work. They earn dinner
and football and sleep and still fry pancakes
for their sons early on Saturday mornings.
Men earn soldier with blood, father
with dicks, and Dad with showing
up late to watch his son in a grade school
geography bee son forgot to mention
had been moved earlier in the morning.

You notice this smiling marine and do not ask
yourself: how your father had time to love
you. You will understand the sacrifice
of family when you build your own. You
ask yourself: why you were embarrassed
when you told him:
(knelt behind your desk in class,
quiet, sure not to disrupt,
breathing heavy in a gray sweat-suit,
ARMY plastered on the chest,
head shaved and safe under a black beanie)
he had missed the bee.
The time changed.

Sitting, head down in the classroom
he help pays to put you in,
you wonder: how were you embarrassed of that Man?
You wonder, ashamed, staring through tears
at the newspaper print of the marine:
how did they spit on veterans after Vietnam?
A moment; you wonder: have you earned I love you?

Record Store Disciples

Once, I thought I saw God in a music shop.
He rummaged hungry through old records,
surveying the tracks, dragging His finger
where the needle runs the groove.
After an album passed inspection
He announced the artist and each song
on either side aloud to the store.
Held hostage by his voice, I anticipated
the ensuing selections, ignoring
what He had piled to purchase.
Where I a more meticulous man
I might have noted what God was in to;
I might have glimpsed some secret
hidden from the understanding of man
in the musing of His holy headphones, only now
revealed, God allowing Himself
the indulgence of human-music.
(I imagine now, after the fact,
God digs Neil Young; the beard gives him away.)
But I didn't notice the titles
in His buy-stack. I just stood
transfixed on His lips, waiting
for more matriculation from His mouth.
God, in a music shop, shocked me:
The Bible rewrote itself in front of me,
history now a merry-go-round swirling around
the stationary center of the moment;
His words new revelations
for a set of record store disciples.
Understanding gradually the gravity,
fumbling a copy of Master of Puppets,
my eyes watered and I was suddenly self conscious-
a man crying next to his lady
on a romantic comedy date night.
Moments like that require fog, and a tonal score:
the store swayed under His booming,
the floor hollowed and cracked, we disciples
recognizing lightness and power in our legs
while the ceiling opened in our imaginations,
heaven, sturdy as a stepmother, waiting above,
growing a dance party disco in the clouds.
We all stared at His beard-white mouth pronouncing;
family, community, believers, audience.
Turns out, though, it wasn't actually God.
A fellow disciple explained later
it was just a homeless man draped in tin-foil
with flows of snow-white hair who wandered
in off the streets plucking every Marvin Gaye
album off the shelves he could find.
He renamed each one after a different author:
Here, My Dear became Judy Blume.
Now, I laugh about tearing up,
lucky I didn't see God; if given the chance
I like to think I would have found out
what He listens to: I would have read the stack.

laying sprawled in sun-shapes
off the window on my dirty sheets,
a reconcilable form of relaxation,
I name myself "Lesser Than"
still imagining your horizons,
your hips, and the cliffs in your eyes.
I'm sure your face, a desert
where lotion and the hands
of former lovers have smoothed the rocks
swallowing the sands of youth there,
smiles someplace as warm as this
bed with me near sleep across it.

strolling

she strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground,

hovering above knitted scarf folds
dangled down past her knees,
she strolls alone,

(the city night a familiar hallway
morphing tenants' portraits with each block)

legs scratching at sidewalk cement,
she stops, draughting at red
lights and cross walks

(the traffic a conveyor belt
of whitewater crash orchestral hits)

she strolls alone
arms cinched in pocets,
no purse around her shoulder,

the thin slopes sharp into the empty
swallowing the around-her.