GI Joe Doll

All writers steal and borrow. I stole the premise and the form of this poem from the poet Marge Piercy and her great poem "Barbie Doll." The idea came to me after a discussion of her poem in my English 12 class a few years ago.

GI Joe Doll

This manchild was born as usual

and presented games that exploded

and GI Joes and miniature Yamaha quads

and wee capguns the color of blued steel.

Then in the madness of puberty, a classmate said

You have zits and act like a jerk.

He was hearty, acted spirited,

possessed lean abs and a thick chest,

abundant hormones and could kick a soccer ball.

He went to and fro spazzing.

Everyone saw zits and a jerk.

He was advised to grow up,

pressed to act like a man,

workout, test the dangers, never smile

and intimidate.

His spirited nature vaporized

like drops of dew in the late morning sun.

So he drank beer and smoked weed

and shut up.

In the casket displayed on flannel he lay

with the undertaker’s prosthetics glued on,

a putty colored chin and wrist,

dressed in a gray suit and black shoes.

Doesn’t he look peaceful? everyone asked.

Conquest at last.

To every teenage boy a victory.

Particle

Particle

I saw myself walking by

 Myself a fragged out particle back from

Where I all began.

And you were there too

A runaway from some forgotten space

Where bodies never say no.

There is dew on your lips

Kiss but you finally never meant it

Because it was better than any other nothing.

You know I live to breathe

The place on your chest

Adorned  by a delicate ibis,

Its eyes disconsolate.

Aral Sea

The following poem is based on the truth. Man is capable of destroying the environment.

Aral Sea

Sea gone

From sea to salt to dust

The dust like pilled rags

Coating our throats

And every breath a muffled mutation

And every blink a peer

Into the shores of retreat

Sea Gone

From sea to salt to dust

All for the billowy caress of cotton

All for cotton

White-gold cotton

Pilgrim

Pilgrim

I saw forty in the rear view and put on my right turn signal

Only to see forty stretch before me

And then left and forwards put me at forty again

Where reverse is just repealing a life of sentences

I got out and pilgrimed the map

The ashes under my feet my own

Like a factor of eight and five

Ashes like black squirt between the toes

Of the day that is made forty

Years of black ash make for black soles

Black soles do not gambol

Except to journey in to my car

Hide behind the glass

Call out my father’s name

Like a snied snivvler in the night

Turn the light on

Please

Let it be down

Please

Nursery School

I never try to force the narrative in my verse. I just want it to be what it is. Often a good poem comes from a tiny, simple place. This one came from my daughter's joy playing with frogs, and I combined that joy with a funny comment from a friend. This poem started as one narrative but since has become something different.

Nursery School

Candy, said the boy.

Cracked cell phones buy no candy, said the girl.

I want my eyes to be pennies that look into your heart, said the boy.

 You are my best friend

And you eat crackers from a bucket.

She said, if you were a woman and I was a man

I would make you sweep crackers or make spaghetti

Because you are not my best friend.

Her thoughts went to her mother, suitable dresses,

Tiny white lilies and lime green frogs.

You are a frog, the girl said.

Girls kiss frogs, the boy said.

I want to jingle your love with loose change, said the boy.
You are my best friend
But you only dream of small growling animals.

She said, if you were a father and I the mother

I would stuff my dress full of your nickels

And give nickels like gum drops to every stray dog.

Her thoughts went to puppies, dust mops,

Crumbs and bits of time across a kitchen.

Here is your cell phone, said the girl.

I am hungry.

I am a frog, said the boy.

Bitter Beat Sugar

Bitter Beat Sugar

Each day of snow she tells me

Her troubles still lie in waiting

Gently stirred in a tea of bitter beat sugar

Swirling in the chipped enamel cup

Her life portrait incomplete

At night the falling flakes become audible

Beneath her breath they coalesce in resignation

To the ground where I sometimes find her

Breathing fogs on vinegar mirrors

Her strength a rimed reflection of rejected moonlight

Beyond arrival is a wet cold place

Love its only source

Smolder

Smolder is new. Right now it's the working title for my new collection.

Smolder

This is the golden age,

You the antidote

And my desolate treasure.

For you I must turn my head,

Gaze across a lithic shoulder

To your intentional eyes.

This is the golden age,

My hand jitters deep

Concealed in my pocket.

I would give you nothing

To never know

That all treasure will go missing.

This is the golden age,

I drink you

And I ache.

My hand on your cheek

In this blurry embrace.

From some golden age

Like a man I settle

My dull touch;

I light your cigarette.