THE FIRST GRADE HALLOWEEN PLAY THE YEAR MY FATHER DIED
On the stroke of May bats made their way into children's plays, and the spelling bee flew into the wrong word for a sickness able to floor you, at least for 24 hours-but an inconvenient 24 hours- heaving into flapping bat wings of black construction paper. I chose no corpulent pumpkin. No ghost for me.
AT THE MUSEUM
Meeting you here isn't fancy.
The bathroom here is fancy.
Even the women on plaques have two kinds of dresses:
an upside-down umbrella, another choking the midriff.
Our meeting here is akin to metal chairs in the courtyard, mugged by snow.
I SHOT DAYLIGHT
Pellet holes in panes of glass, antennas of cracking. Daylight could have sought retribution at nightfall. Hues relinquished in pursuit of a gray worm, and in silence thickly spackled disease. I spun around a sapling, all elbow grease exhausted.
Pablo Picasso meets Georgia O'Keefe. Alfred Steiglitz and he rumble. Helen Frankenthaler pours a bucket of paint on them. Louise Bourgeois sculpts her mother as a gigantic bronze spider, eyeballs peek out of the grass. Agnes Wright draws rectangles around the house.
BOOK OF THREE DAYS
1/24/05 6:18:12 PM
Popsicle stick people drone on, appearing to lipstick my long face in light of contusion. Until catapulted.
Pick up new object.
No room for cream. No milky space.
I heated black until red. Then singed yellow until it escaped as char into the night.
I have a date with my shovel at three. A flurry of activity before: Typing notes Listening to recorded poem