First Poem Written at a Baseball Game

The ice cream man at the baseball game
He's holding it over his head
And he's thinking
Buy this
Buy this because it's not beer
Buy this for your kids
And whether or not people are looking at him
They are aware of his presence
They are aware of something they can never get back

Second Poem Written at a Baseball Game

He's sitting there in the second row
Box-scoring
And he thinks there is nothing more beautiful
Than early spring grass stains
And a woman trying to hold three foot-long hot dogs

He's been doing this since before the war
Back when you could smoke in the stands
If he could hear I would want to ask him
Does the clay look the same color
Or was it really black and white

Third Poem Written at a Baseball Game

On this day in baseball history
Very little happened
The sun sat at a similar angle
Sunburns had already been invented
And the umpires had the same
Chips on their shoulders
A ball was a ball
A strike a strike
And the world was still perfect
For nine innings worth of time

Fourth Poem Written at a Baseball Game

Sitting in the stands
I fell into a dream
Where the seats were filled with
Formally dressed Japanese women
Cheering for their favorite stars

They did so silently
Waving their hands and nothing else
Trying to smile
Too enthralled to succeed

The players couldn't move
Frozen in a miraculous montage moment
Like Cinderella but better
And all you could hear were
The bright lights buzzing

Go foul
Go foul
Please go foul

On the Death of Arthur C. Clarke

The first crop circle will make me cry
And I will find it all the more difficult
Now
To believe in what I’ve never been able to see

Let hoaxes be our jokes
And mysteries the sound that wakes us from sleep

I know that you are still in Sri Lanka
That there is a wandering shadow
Is not just a coincidence
And now that I can’t
All I want to tell you
Is that there is a long hallway on the third floor
Where something is hiding in the sickly yellow light
And in my worst dreams
There is a large figure that changes shape
Grabbing at me from the darkness
Since my childhood
And a voice in my closet saying
Hello
Hello



Hello…

Hypothesis

If the majority of people were exceptional
Then this wouldn’t be a poem
If the self-loathing I felt in large crowds was heat stroke
Then red lights and stops signs wouldn’t be so sure
If I could count the pennies in my pocket
Then I could make a fountain smile wide
If my anxiety was on fire
Then I would contribute to the loss of the rain forest
If the world were on its axis
Then there would be no dust
If there were punches
Then I would either fight or have a sip
If it all were boiled down
Then it would be no bigger than a street
If something ever happened to you
Then I would never be able to forget myself

Birds of Prey

There is an island
Off the coast of a smaller island
And maybe it was once called
In a native tongue
The land where the ocean was created
But now if it were even on a map
It would say
A sad land like so many ice cream truck graveyards
Where whispers go alone
To live amongst the plagues

There is a small box
In the corner of every room that I don’t want to be in
Menacing me with times tables
And yearbook pictures

Were I to catch that box
I would open it slowly
With leather gloves
Making sure my shoes were tied
Making sure it wouldn’t get the better of me
Then I would fill it
With what
Only I know

There is a bird of prey
That I taught how to fly
And he thinks that I’m his father
And he’s flying
Toward the island
With my box
And after he’s dropped it
The box will sit amongst
Shrubs and shadows
And from a distance
There seems to be the faint sound
Of drums
But now I’m feeding
My bird of prey
Pieces of meat
And watching myself
In the reflection of his eye

An Utter Lack of Disrespect (or Mary Shelley)

I sat at a bar
Sipping high-balls with Jane Austen
Jane Eyre stumbled out of the
Bathroom
She had visibly been doing cocaine
"I've run out of
Makeup" she said
I suggested that she
And Miss Austen
Kiss
There was no hesitation

Dante II

Milton would say
They nourish the earth
While their souls let fly to Heaven
Though the grass is dead
Where bodies lay blocking the sunlight
And the sky is filled with nothing
Save for clouds and bombs

The first ring of Hell
Is the interior of a cardboard box
Filled with healthy kittens
And unbelievable static electricity

Shiva with his many hands
God with his many misdeeds
And Buddha with his clean-shaven face,
Fine tailored suit and top hat
All sit cross-legged
Awaiting the sunset, absorbing the afternoon glow
Awaiting the dawn
Of the fall of the sun
All with crossed fingers
Awaiting the tax-free holiday

And so it would go
The second ring of Hell
Is in the handle
Of a too-heavy spoon
Which splashes soup and makes a fool
Of both linens and China

Milton would suggest
That the pink unburied flesh
Might, by the plucking of birds,
Be borne onto Heaven
But there is something in the sulfur
The tinge of lead
That fends the flutter
Of even the most ambitious wings

The third ring of Hell
Is the back when looking in a mirror
For unlike the unseen side
Of the moon
The tuxedoed dark side
Is mirthlessly there
And unobserved

The gods drink sake
From brass bells
While John prepares the toast and marmalade
And George notices
The floors need sweeping—
Shiva quickly deals poker
And Buddha’s eyes hide
Behind binoculars

The fourth ring of Hell
Is scarcely larger than a large mouse
Or a small cat
It’s there
And it’s always there

Milton opens his mouth
As if to say something before closing it once again
Buddha hands him a flask
From his breast pocket
And there is no doubt
That the night will be dark as whiskey
And longer than any can imagine
So God tends the coals of the fire
And Shiva’s eyes linger across the expanse
As he tends the smoke screen

The last five rings of Hell
Are fingers
Fingers that don’t know
What they do
And that are slowly counting
Down from five
To three
To none

Dante

People are on fire
Burning to a high degree
And there's music
And all kinds of light
Orange blossoms
Embracing napalms
Hand in hand
Pigs for the slaughter
Kites stuck in trees
Litters of kittens
But this is not a car bomb
No, no
It's a disco inferno

Six and Nine Make Fifteen Line

Though it is night
Hair on ends toward the sun
A mixture of points
And warmth
Ears connected
To the base of the spine
Breathing like talking
And movement
To cover the eyes
With empty hangers
And a floor made
Of clothes
Cream taken with
Sugar taken
With coffee

Shiva the God of Death

This small infinity
In the slaughter of imagine
And create
As binding as the rack
As salty as a knife