Rocks

I threw them for no reason
Other than Old Harrisburg Road
Ran thick with crushed limestone
Inexhaustible at a languid pace
But finite as my patience with the pious
When I threw them fast and furious
At the window lights of the old school house
Or poor cousin Reesy
Out of plain spite
Rage cupped
In the palm of my hand
Fired sidearm with topspin
Until my arm ached
All those sharp edged consonants
Nuggets of vowels
From ancient pages of seabed
I threw them for no reason
Other than mindless thrill
Heedless of the crunch of words
Beneath the wheels of the morning milk truck.

Seven Foot Sickle Bar Mower

Lifeless on a patch of Wear farm swallowed
up by time marked in jimson and honey vine
milkweed to the eyes of a city boy, worse
a northerner, shoeless, shirtless, tanned but

for pale omegas of a low tide flat top wreathing my ears
white shading to blue at the temples, prayerful snakes
sleep late coiled around clutches of my nightmares.  

Oil can like the oil can that lubricated the Tin Man
brandished jail break file in the other hand
grandpa circled the scorpion striking at the lethal tail
silvering edges of serrated teeth, eyes shadowed

by the brim of his pith helmet, liquoring bushings
gone dry in the heat while I sat watching
from the open palm of the Ford NAA Jubilee tractor seat

bearing witness to the honing of blades against high grass
bearding the branch, touching but not touching
my father’s face swimming naked in the quarry
pond of grandpa in profile, angled low above

the linkage mechanism, steel on steel, shadow
against light, my hand rolling fine red clay dust
into thin snakes against my smooth cheek.

Durable Medical Equipment

Standard kit; four wheels and a hand
brake, tubular construction in sober
parsons black with a lick
of chrome fittings, she’s low
to the ground and tight
on the turns with a basket
up front, padded kneeler in back,
our Mardis Gras float, I’ll ease her in
behind the Krewe of Mona Lisa and Moon Pie
while you slosh hurricane and wave
to the joyous, drunken throngs.

Algoma Guardian

She’s bound for Toledo riding
low with grain, slipping through
fine blue capillary that splits
the difference between Belle Isle and Windsor
Canada keeping a low profile
to the south forever
confounding us.  

N   A   I   D   R   A   U   G      A   M   O   G   L   A

emerge one by one from behind
a clump of trees in the middle
distance, tidy Canadian houses
gobbled like so many pills
hull bleeding rust
I stand witness
to silent progress
her steady down bound passage.

Library

You lacked grandeur, no city hall portal,
with the footprint of a chapter book face up
on the lawn, spine a rule for tomes of cars

shameless with chrome.  A nameless perfume
bathed us in the foyer, a lure to place our heads
in your open oven, greedy for another gassing.  

Landscape of sturdy oak plain and canyon
buttered in light from a flotilla of hovering
saucers, the wind swept butte topped with glare

ice where my finger skated titles and my dog-
eared card toward a woman with cats eye glasses
lashed lightly on thrilling swell by the thinnest whip

of lanyard, yellow Ticonderoga number
two at the ready in the perfect quiver
of her platinum French twist, pert pink bud

eraser bobbing up and down with every
delicate toggle of the fat rubber
date stamp, so mesmerizing to a dewy reader

brought to his toes, straining for a whiff
of subtext, your memory a mist rising from this book
cracked wide, lolling fragrant in my lap.

Sleep Arrived

She arrived early last night
for the ten o’clock shift
frock on the hook, bag on chair
moist kiss of no-nonsense shoes
I like to mimic from behind
the rim of my glass while you stifle
a snicker until it falls in step
with the papery cadence of her starch
whites and muttered imprecations.  
It never ceases to amaze, the ease
with which she heaves us
over her pillowed shoulders, knees
cushioned on those ample *******
arms dangling limp to the rolling
sway of her kneading haunches
stealing a good night kiss
behind her dray horse back
as she bundles us drowsy up to bed.

Lightning Strikes 323 Norwegian Reindeer

Hunters made the discovery, stealth and *****
dabbed anoraks all for nothing not to mention
a critical downwind approach and camo blend

that rendered Frode and Jørgen or Ove and Anders
invisible against rock and lichen and cloudberry
but offered little protection against thoughts sublime.

Ove, perhaps, cursing God for poor sportsmanship,
the divine equivalent of dynamiting fish, while Anders
gave silent thanks to fortune, a freezer full of steaks.