~on a scavanger hunt~

Fire in an Upstairs Room


Three thick pieces cracked,
color of red cellophane,
hard plastic, the extinguisher box
showcased on the wall, without
a cover, holds no unit.

Tongue saturated with smoke,
throat of the fire even grasping
for air, the only window breaks.
The blaze bleeds out, shrinking
the room the lingering bodies

have left. Ahead of me, by the
locked entrance, holding in place
two wheels, two handles, two petals-
one up, one down- a maroon seat
and a stand, the base of someone’s
bike that might still be here tomorrow
is red.

Red.

**this be my favorite poem**

Massachusetts Bay

To the Lost Fisherman of 1870 and 1880


He didn’t want to set out, said his back and shoulders were getting
too old, wanted to fish from the rocks on warm, yellow days in his

boots, vest and jimmy hat. I told him there was time for that next
summer. The storm combed the water as I valiantly waited

with chamomile and honey steaming from my mug before the adamant
high seas took down thirteen great fishermen. It’s been eleven months

and some days I hear him miss me; the way the water weeps
on the sand early every morning, holding on for as long as it can

before a seagull pats it dry, how the waves roar to me before I sleep
for neglecting the sea yet another day, remembering the way we swayed

on our wedding day when I look out the panes and see the water dancing
in white skirts, moving like snow angel ornaments in the air, listening to

the melodic current against the whistling wind of his name, and smelling
from the porch what made me fall in love with him thirty-six years ago.

OJAS

Coppertone’s mixed with black and pearl
vary from straight to curl, as Fall leaves the ground.


Air rei(g)ns a flow through my winter veins,
you remain someplace misplaced.


Black cougars attack me in dreams, surrounded by dreams,
like the White chocolate tucked underneath the Dark, socializing together
to create the Milk. Ladies and gentlemen, stop your complains;
we sell fresh-born fruit so highly, chemically tamed.


You are not the first to say, “There is something about you
that draws me to you, I cannot explain.” I could, with magnetism,
but who is a magician without their audience? I am not the one to blame.


What, you thought it might be? Thought me might be? Your hinge
my locksmith is in the wrong place. I stroke your agni when and when
you are not looking and you still have no suspicion (look it up, look me down, you’ll never find what you are looking for). Restore the ama.

Your Eyes

Your eyes
with mine
remind my mind
of a place-filled disaster
you helped me find.

Slate-steel blink staring and staring
inducing a look, tearing
through me making me sink;
parting from you, the only thing
pouring from my eyes is ink.

Shame on a Train

A certain amount of luck
in everything we do
no no, we don't rely on luck,
do we?
we substitute broken thoughts
for interpretations of other people's peripheral
visions (disdain after they hear
what we really think of them). Parking lot
attendants, harboring small joints in their sock
pockets, we set to trust to watch our multi-
thousand dollar cars, what we truly care
for out of that whole liability mess
is our CD collection; leaving it high and dry
for the attendees to get high with foreheads
not so dry. Broke down train sprockets leave cars
and cars and 2 level cars of impatient, 'un'
or is it 'in'
satisfied corporate working
American 9-5 women and men.