Poetry

I was sitting at a banquet table before the awards ceremony. 
A distinguished character actor, who narrated the PBS documentary
I saw last night, entered the banquet hall in a white jacket.

the belief was eels were male catfish,
believe if you leave a fried one alone 
return to red-raw meat, or a trickle 
trail of blood and crumb, a resurrection

“Up!” she signals, syllabic cup
     meaning wherever I am now—up
or down—floor, high chair—change direction!—

It follows you everywhere,
I think, even this hillside
of mint and yellow gorse
on the far side of the sea,

the lake becomes a ghost. i decide
to lie down in its place. for comfort,
i polish its bed smooth, quilt a pallet 

Even here. Even now the heavy industry
of the everyday, making to be unmade,
where a word is the world between us.

the lake becomes a ghost. i decide 
to lie down in its place. for comfort, 
i polish its bed smooth, quilt a pallet 

In this day and age only a fool goes looking for the lost city. Drunks and suckers, or worse.

Like the pirates and revolutionaries of legend, heads spiked
atop the great bridge spanning the great city, I am now a head
without a body. Maybe the body ran away while I was sleeping,
slamming headless into walls and doors. Maybe my body...

If you were to shoulder a heavy bat
& beat one today, many decades after—