{pre-tofurkey poems}

sat and chatted and wrote with the lovely and talented Rebecca Hart (see her show 12/8 & 12/9: www.rebeccahartproject.com) this afternoon, since the office closed early. now I will post them and then go cook rice krispies treats for the thanks-making fest tomorrow. I haven't made these in a solid decade, so we'll see how it goes.

OK, new poems. as always, I'm not sure about the titles, and all comments are welcome. nobody comments on my journal. either nobody's reading it, or I need to be more incendiary. um, trees are unnecessary. refrigeration is the source of all evil. George Bush is president.

geometry of the obvious

Betsy Ross is an overstuffed armchair.
torn spot in the cosmos, all exposed tacks
and threadbare, a given. these colors
do run, she says, lost
in history’s junkroom. I wanted
treelight sifting through lace, candlewax
warping on glass – or snow
with molasses patterns. but they
wanted geometry, symbology
of the obvious. Betsy shifts
her square feet, the plush back puffing
with each sigh. kicking up dust
with those boys was like preaching
to a wheelbarrow. where cushion
meets arm, a mouse
tucks his collapsible bones.
Betsy Ross is an overstuffed
armchair, faux needlepoint tapestry
wanting just one more tongue, once more
the traffic of buggies, of boot-clad men
who come calling well before
the war begins, want a flag sewn
under which to lie.

***

perfect, after a fashion

the zombie model wriggles in her skin,
hungry like never. the blessedly dead
offer thumbs to worms, remember
rubber pacifiers, new mother’s nipples.
implants a surprise panacea
for extinction, her zombie face wobbles,
solidifies, flashbulb. perfect! a little
superglue and the hair curls back
in godless ringlets. what posture.
posable, still for hours. the dead
are not envious, nutritious
and fertile where they lay, ashes
to ashes, no more lipstick
or shave cream, nails and hair
growing wild.