i'm finding things in old notebooks.

W. Monroe on a thursday.
3/00

i smoke
and eat kisses from silvery men
a holy tuesday order
you're planning fake orange murder
and the pot brownie guy
and sprinklers and
diseased goldfish
i had forgotten the sound of crickets
big spiders by the screen door
cheesy high school movies
with the wednesday night
television goddess
now i'm a street light
no one standing there
a bush, a stop sign
and all i can think of
is the pollen count and
bumble bees
the South of France
the number twelve
somebody named lucky
and Sarah Michelle Gellar's tattoo.

Untitled
2000

the snappy pops sit unattended
he's wearing my name tag
and that spiffy green shirt
smelling it all up with the pungency of boy
i bought some granola
free potato salad for dinner
how fireworks are like people
they sit,
wait and wait
not knowing their beauty
they have one shining moment
then
black.
ashes.
dust.
he held me there my breath too
a simple gesture that says decades
i put on my bowling shoes
go out to find a missionary nurse
who smiles and hugs like Mother Theresa
like the father down the street
small Greek and shiny
with his finches and his death penalties
the former methodist church now
covered in Gold

Untitled
1999

this giving tree
you milked its fresh leaves
its waving green branches
slowly it transforms,
a single greying stump
you come and sit
we talk of ages
and of strange persons in white coats.
you disappear
the men come with their machines
to pull me up into
your garden mulch.