Monday, December 21, 2009


In the garage of the father
waiting on time.   Some
sort of 5-year long
anxiety attack.   One
year I’d rather not
forget, no notes
available.   Dis-
remember bath-
room catalog,
Sears, with side-
ways smile and
studio map of the
stars.   Trying not
to be handsome
with evil grin and
stopped-up wink
doesn’t work.   You’re
powder blue above the
rest.   A kind of picnic
stapled up the side of a
Disney ride and downed
with 800 milligrams of
Motrin (no more laughing
gas).   Meanwhile, back
at the ranch, the toolshed
wriggles under the thumb
of a typhoon.   A set of
chopsticks are torn from
a potato salad.   Dill is
in the air; an ice box
creeps across a yard
of concrete, rowdy as
a fourth quarter Tiger
touchdown at the
county line.