WEREWOLF PHILOSOPHY

It’s not easy, as we all know.

The sandwich lies on its plate

with a hurt look and a bite out of it.

The hungry detectives sell

their lines directly to paperback

and smoke damp cigarettes out in the alley.

Dames, one of them mutters,

then looks around to make sure

no one was listening.

I’ve got a silver bullet,

and sometimes I check it with my teeth

just to make sure.

SKIN

A tube pasted with feathers

and life trumpeted through --

Doot! Doot-doot-doo!

A Day at the Beach:

The skin manufactures the sea

in grime-polished beads.

 

Awards for the pits! Backs of knees! 

Insides of elbows! Whole shiny face,

shallow and made of sand!

A cold breeze comes over.

A million small hills

raise their flags in protest –

till the sun returns and slicks the rest.

Steady On:

He walked in covered with birthmarks

and nakedness, not knowing I was there. 

I knew I should have looked away from

my first full-grown man, but my book

would not meet my gaze.

A Girl Named Rash:

An allergic itch.  A nervous scratching. 

Droplets of blood seeping through clothing.

Waking up ravaged, raw.

(I said, I must want out of this body badly.

You said, Maybe you’re trying to stay in.)

Flesh Colored Creams:

Assuage.  Skin on skin.  Ointment jar.

Painting on the silver-backed glass:

little vanisher, you are.

THE BALLAD OF LUCKY KNUCKLES    

The sun sinks down like a chin to chest.

The low slung horizon sequins for night.

Nothing's left but the rind of the moon –

Lucky Knuckles lays his luck down.

They say he was crossed by a pinkie swear – says,

If I had five cents for each dime store dream....

He doubles over in a coughing fit,

Heels worn down where the floorboards creak.

Once he turned heads, turned corners, turned tides;

People quick-kissed where the knife almost cut.

Now he watches weather like a lover resigned.

The salt and the pepper strain closer together.

The hang of his hands, the weight of his swagger,

(The whiskey girls lean up against fences)

The distance increases between each knucklebone.

(The girls under breath singing, Take me out dancing.)

A small dog barks at a paper cup.

Fist City hurries to shutter and latch.

Some kinds of love only makes you stagger.

Lucky Knuckles lays his luck down.

ALLEY RHYMES

Sloe gin, Sloe gin

Knock two times

And come right in

Dance Hall, Dance Hall,

Pick a girl

Who’s 6 feet tall

Blue rose, Blue rose,

She looks down

Wherever she goes

Fox trot, Fox trot

Tell that girl

You like her a lot

Drink up, Drink up

Cops are coming

So grab your cup

Back door, Back door

Down the alley

And past the store

Full moon, Full moon

She’s been gone now

Since last June

MOTORCYCLES AND AXES

Mothers, if I see you again –

has my blood-ice melted?

With my bones

will you pick your teeth?

You shunned me with clouds

when I cried out for you

with thundering waves.

You shoved me off

when I took a ship

breaking off into the air –

the ice floe of my scream,

goggles strapped,

leather helmet on my head.

Am I motorcycles through warm winds

or just drunken singing to you?

Now I’ve seen beaches

so soft,

makes you shudder.

For your daughters on motorcycles,

hold back the wind

and grind stones with your teeth.

The mothers wield their axes.