Sheet metal sunflowers scrape
against the house.

It’s annoying,
like a grown man legally

changing his name to Baby Fish,
the weight of Larry Wexler

inexplicably unbearable.
The wind picks up,

the paint starts to wear,
the scraping becomes banging

and the rain falls.
This is no night

for arts and crafts,
no moment for myth or perfectly

manicured lawns.
There is no clean t-shirt

to temper the wool sweater,
no soda for your Scotch,

no hand-blown glass to offer asylum
to that unborn fawn.

Midsummer VII

Information the shadowy trees
                Might have

                Can be coaxed with a feather

                Love is ticklish
                Feathers abound

We gather more than we expected
                Damp leaves
                Stuck to our thighs

                An old
                Mylar birthday balloon

                Philosophical arguments
                Between fingertips
                And ticket stubs

Consider the nature of nature as
                Revealed at the movies

                Where this season’s zombie takes
                Another bite of thigh meat
                Ill met / helmet / thighs meet

We listen again to the trees
                That can’t help but cast
                Their shadows into the theater’s
                Parking lot

Walking home the bullfrog

The moon and the wind
                It longs for sing

A ring / coin / slipper
                Lost forever

The little man in the boat

The little informant
                In the trees

                Flies off.

The Bedside Book of Human Flesh

She came to town with the tilt-
                a-whirl, the cotton
                candy and the rest
                of the circus

                to completely
                freak me out with her body
                and her teeth

                and those eyes painted up
                like doomed butterflies.

Personifying appetite.
                Presiding over a stack of severed limbs
                that could never be.

                                But had to be my own.

                And the bone in her hair.
                And the zebra-skin bikini.

Was she once the imaginary friend?

                The tiger’s evolution?

                Too unrefined for tea and conversation
                in the Musical Garden?

                The only feral child
                hungry and bold enough
                to taste Kali’s soiled ankles?

Like a prom dress from hell,
                her banner on the midway

                made us look and look away and dare
                another look.

                A tower of sex and doom.

                Ungodly peach and green
                brushstrokes jumping
                from its windows.

        Unresolvable cannibal juice
        on her cleavage, legs and skulls.