Americana

Miles and miles of forgotten junk:
rusted iron, old paint past luster,
chickenwire put out to pasture,
farm machinery long defunct.

Sunset slides down bellied walls
of moribund equipment sheds
and in a melange of withered reds
the night falls.

Telefono Phonics

Your ear's infected, meinen lieben shatz.
The tiny lieder tickle through the holes,
the curly saxophones of speech. What news?
I run my index round the open conch,
dab at its baubles, tap the sexy jawbone,
watch the tongue flick out its sounds. My German
founders on the air, too flat, too false,
it stinks, like sheiza. You're not even German.

Your ankles cross beneath the table, pebbles
swept from some little stream in Nayarit,
your nails not gussied by some whorish reds,
nor flaked azuls. I listen like a chimp
and breathe the dust, filthy and ignorant,
mutter que linda ach du Lieber. Nada.

x

Query

John I said how do we
get this over on them?
They will become wise,
their eyes will blaze
and there will be precious little
we can say in our defense.

You might say it's the slant
of light from the point
where three corners of a room
meet, or the slight
rustle of a curtain with the shoes
showing underneath,

but that won't satisfy
the least of them, who prattle
on about what matters, who
gainsay our frivolous hi-jinks
and vaunt thair square chins
like a bunch of Ivanhoes.

I felt as if the water under
the boat had breathed
like a fantastic lung,
so I hunkered down
and shivered like some Judas
under the stars' fingers.

x