Just three poems from the summer of last year (2007)
The Bird Nest
There was a bird nest
on the deck posts behind my house.
It is ruined now, however,
blown down after the storm.
I found it in a jumble:
thick straws entwined in peat mosses,
tatters of yarn meshed with naked bronze leaves.
I say jumble because it was not earthy, as nests should be,
But rather, it was more unnatural; bizarre; human, dare I say it; a freak accident of a bird nest, like a plane crash or collision.
Only I
never found the surviving eggs.
Prop
The journal that I use as a prop, it’s
simple; brown with a black binding.
The ghost of a price tag inhabits the back cover, confusing its readers as to top or bottom.
Margins are placed at odd angles, like a house of mirrors, they are off by centimeters, but it makes miles of difference.
On its pages are written nothings.
An asylum of sense-enticing ponderings that
One must have written while back stage.
Clues to survival or advice on life.
It reads like a book of love written by a teenager in ennui, devoid of interest.
Fourth of July
I wonder what my friends are doing back home.
Last year we stared and chased our pretty girlfriends
In the fields near Nader’s decrepit warehouses in the
juvenile Afternoon, on the Fourth of July.
Come Evening,
[Although we didn’t know it,
or care to record it at the time,]
we experienced what it was to be
American Children
On the Fourth of July.
As fireworks illuminated our faces
and
kisses peppered our lips, we
laid in the grassy fields near Nader’s decrepit warehouses,
under the sycamores lit by erotic fireflies us.
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