Betheny

The old women form a circle--

Babushkas escaped from Stalin

To East Los Angeles--like buzzards

Around me: hunching shoulder



Blades, flapping neck skin,

The hopping excitement, the

Bulbous greed-stricken eyes.

Squawking claustrophobic crush.



Kissing lips peck flesh from

Ligament, suck marrow free

From deep, sluice lipstick-stained

Saliva, pinch skin to oblivion.



"Ohh, the little grandson of Moisi!"



I am bones; I rest in a pile

On the salt flats of California:

Baked brittle, old sock white,

And dry like cinnamon.



Somewhere a jet turbine

Flames a converted sedan

Into a cotton candy plume.

Rivets strain. Cracked rubber



Tires skitter off the sand into the sky.

A happy moon bobs in the acid

wash afternoon. I fall from above,

Land back on the rigid, oak, church pew--



I struggle softly to unzip my flame-

Retardant suit, with the cape and the blue

Stripe; the metal tear, conspicuous

As candy-wrapper crackles.

Poems-lite

Fruit Flies

Ahhgh! Fruit Flies
in the oranges again!
They were stacked
so nicely--Giza
in the wicker basket.

I had a bar of Ecuadorian
chocolate to go with
them. 77% cacao.
Mmm. Right there!
On the coffee table.

You'd've sliced them
when you got back
this weekend, and
slurped the juice out.
The chocolate could've
slowly melted down
your throat.

But oh! Oh! Those
fruit flies mucked
it up. They're in there
now, screwing inside
your Welcome Home
oranges!


First Kiss

Curt's first kiss
occurred in second grade,
in a schoolyard,
at recess.

Swooping red pig-
tails, puckered lips,
shrill giggles, the thin
swash of spittle.

He didn't wipe away
the wet evidence as
he sprinted. It
air-dried.

Hidden, between
the cafeteria and
a pine tree, he
curled himself.

The horror. The
horror. The ten
absurdly long minutes.
The bell.


The Cynoclept

Poodles are my speciality,
but I hunt beagles too.