The Fly
The black wings of the fly twitch,
Thin as Saran Wrap. It makes me itch
To think of touching it—the hairs
On its feet are thick, prickly, flared
Like mascaraed lashes. And yet,
You wait for me to say. Poets
Locate ordinary or
Ugly things, stare, and pour
Rhyme on top of them. I
Should see beauty in the fly’s
Iridescent (are they?) wings,
Or in the shuddery way it clings
And then looses itself from surfaces.
Or its voice—it quietly buzzes,
A metallic purr, tinny drone.
I’m supposed to say that the fly has shown
Me truth, miniscule, fleeting, gross.
And yet this fly has diagnosed
What I love about words—they invent and conjure,
Reflect, absorb, translate and transfer.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009: On the Street….Seventh Ave, NYC
On the spectrum of female power
Cloaked in leopard print, wool, and fur
Mia fell somewhere in between Mrs. Robinson
And Cruella de Vil. The wardrobes of these women
Derive their muscle and magic from animals
(goat, rabbit, mink, chinchilla, sheep, moth).
Cloaked in leopard print, wool, and fur
Mia fell somewhere in between Mrs. Robinson
And Cruella de Vil. The wardrobes of these women
Derive their muscle and magic from animals
(goat, rabbit, mink, chinchilla, sheep, moth).
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009: On the Street….Green & Grey, Paris
Maraschino cherries are dyed red and sweetened,
Pickled in a sweet chemical blush.
Eggs are bleached, and flour,
So that we’re not offended by their earthen irregularities.
In the produce section of the supermarket,
The pyramids of apples emit their waxy sheen.
I’m shushed by the sudden mist that bathes the lettuce,
Shh, be quiet, be clean.
Pickled in a sweet chemical blush.
Eggs are bleached, and flour,
So that we’re not offended by their earthen irregularities.
In the produce section of the supermarket,
The pyramids of apples emit their waxy sheen.
I’m shushed by the sudden mist that bathes the lettuce,
Shh, be quiet, be clean.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009: On the Street…..Leathers & Feathers, Paris
Gather ten fistfuls of fine sand.
Bring them to the warehouse that you pass
on weekend evenings, in which masked figures
blow angry blue flames.
They’ll boil that sand,
cup the liquid glass like water,
and breathe into it so that it expands and spins,
a crystalline lung preparing for the possibilities
of shape and function.
Bring them to the warehouse that you pass
on weekend evenings, in which masked figures
blow angry blue flames.
They’ll boil that sand,
cup the liquid glass like water,
and breathe into it so that it expands and spins,
a crystalline lung preparing for the possibilities
of shape and function.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009: On the Street….Shellback, Paris
Locked in the coffin of a new form,
Gregor Samsa’s beetle body shook and skidded
On his quilted bedspread. His room is the same
As it was while he slept. The coins, cologne,
Photo on his dresser remain. They are waiting
Still for his hand to grasp them, use them,
Bring them into being.
Gregor Samsa’s beetle body shook and skidded
On his quilted bedspread. His room is the same
As it was while he slept. The coins, cologne,
Photo on his dresser remain. They are waiting
Still for his hand to grasp them, use them,
Bring them into being.
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