on a weathered wooden sidewalk
a young girl in black dress dotted with red valentines
crouches against a truckbed toolbox,  a plastic
 bottle in her hand. she wears pink sweat
pants under the dress. her face is red, hair tangled, dirty
blond. she is staring into a yard littered with faded
plastic toys. a bike sits on its side, torn white
and pink streamers hang from handlebars.
a thin acrid line of smoke
 rises from lumps of melted plastic
that pepper a fire pit in the middle of the yard.

what i wanted to say was this was all of it.
the coming of ancient scrolls, the washing of feet.
when that girl walks into your arms, asking
is it doll night, how do you render the innocent tale, how do you
put the beauty on page, i want to know how
to write a proper love song.

maybe i should just quote her. begin to write those things down
that make me remember why life.


























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no smells. my poems don't have smell. or touch.only sight. i think that's exaclty right .i think i smoke to drown the smells i've had to smell. but what color is it. no, that's a sight thing again. if it were a stuffed animal it would be a mouse, if it were a smell, it would be a salt encrusted beach.






at the hibachi, clanging knives command
 attention. this is art performed
under industrial sized metal box shaped vents
on stainless steel square tables, bordered
on three sides by  occupants of white leather
 covered chairs. the fourth
 is the artist's provence. the chef rubs
the blade of one knife against the blade of another,
a gong for a swordfight; armour, unzipping.
a hint of petroleum rises
 from other heating tables as if a tire
were burning in the kitchen.
a sushi diner at the far end
of the room, sitting under
a volcano sculpture  of mud
and pine limbs and light,
erupts in coughing fit.
this soup is cold, she rasps loudly
the whole room gets very quiet then the chef
drops his knife. it hits
the tile floor with a quick ping.
no matter, he has a spare
pulled out of empty space and without
missing a beat , slides sizzling
slices of scallops, lobster and shrimp
across the gleaming, steaming surface.
when it's time for the sauce bottle
he  cajoles the men to open up
for a taste. from a three feet away, he aims.
the liquid arcs across the table
 in an unbroken  stream into their mouths.