studio

i turn off that goddamn tv

it makes a crispy breakfast cereal sound

popping sizzling electrical shut down

and then, its silent

as silent as a room buzzing with electronic whir can ever be

my refrigerator mmmmumbles

and the computer snores

and the lights burp

and there's always some sort of dripping and traffic and chattering and birdsound

some sort of disgruntled appliance pouring out its two cents and

running up my bills with its pollution

the american version of quiet.

city rat.

i am not a stick or a stone

just lazy bones

i am not of the glory of nature

i rub dirt in my skin

commit reptile sin

but am still just an urban creature

catch flies with my tongue

catch smoke in my lungs

i wish i was a more simple mammal

but i'm a slave to the clock

and fashionable shock

never the right kind of animal

taking notes in class.

THE ARK

cryptozoology is the cause of my concern.
late-night whimsies that were
too busy to be bothered with
Noah's schedule flicker across
the screen of my eyelids
and beg description,
as most bedtime curiosities do.

it is difficult to order coffee
with a gryffin perched on my brain;
more difficult, still,
to convince the cable-washed children
that unicorns still have a place
other than in garish sticker-books.

small town.

where i live, you would never hear a woman on the street screaming obscenities about heartbreak, not on those quiet lamplit streets, no. but in secret, blue-eyed boys wear mascara, and girls with blue, red, and green in their hair sneak out to kiss in water. they sleep in beds on beaches, feeling old and drunk, and stay up all night trying to rhyme words with 'orange'. 80-year-old men with 36-year-old russian mail order brides sit in the bath tub, because where i live, money is no object but women are. in the sunlight, little girls in flourescent green boots carry sleeping puppies in backpacks, and people slap hands and sing. but at night, that is when some swim through the sky, jumping from the cable cars and prowling like tigers.