New Brain, Old Brain, Spring Summer

The days of half price baked goods Friday,
lemon square, Mississippi mud, peanut butter
and poppyseed at Rocky Mountain are done.
Now square pegs go in round holes, the
USB goes white-left, black-right. Jenny
sends a quick note at five fifty-five that
makes you cry. Catty's feet under the fence.

Forget about the downspout, the dirt by
the hose. Give her some turkey and she'll
sleep while I pack the stereo. Tumbleweeds
of hair blow through the empty living room
and you proclaim: "Dirty people live here."
I find the gold Chi pin, puzzle pieces of a
fence, an old popcorn kernel, some nuts
and this pen. Then I do indeed leave a
hole in the floor when I drop the box.

You wait by the flute and duck from
your lawyer, get turkey at the Roost
and fling buttertart flakes from your
'78 sweatshirt. The ladies take silver
in curling for Canada. I freak out
and smash up the kitchen trash can,
dance to "Blame It (on the al-a-a-al-a-
al-cohol)" and you put a wet towel over
my puffy eyes in bed. Neil Young comes
out of the ground singing, wearing white.

We watch The Descent with the lights out,
imagine a cave monster sleeping on the
book shelf by the aloe, hiding in the
laundry room. You dream your childhood
friend tried to kill you with a scalpel,
then get jumpy thinking the police are
coming to take us away. Faith takes Hope
to the hotel to catch her husband with
the Chinese violinist. I head down to
the hydrant and swear I hear airs.

Impulsive yet overly cautious, predicting
unrealistic threats to react to. First lives
and then souls on the line. You arrange my
Faulkners in an aesthetically pleasing fashion,
I keep Cornel West but let them take the rest,
eat cold pizza from a box on the ground and
chug OJ from the carton. Finally Harry Crews'
tattoo "How do you like your blue-eyed boy
now, Mr. Death?" starts to make sense.


2011