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Sep 2016 · 258
Tableau
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Tableau

A cheddar wheel of morning sun
Grates up against the window screen
To curl in whorls into the room
Where side by side we sleep displayed
On shiny continental pins  
Rorschach pairs of papery wings
Masking luminescent sifted rind
Silhouettes nestled deep in drifts.
Sep 2016 · 190
The Best Part Of This Ride
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
The Best Part of This Ride

is not the yellow lights
veering like starlings or
the smear of midway neon
neither is it the sweet
billow of deep fried
elephant ears or the lewd
bend of the corn dog
in the hand of the operator

centrifugal force
pinning us in a blue skylark
pulling you tight to me
your upturned cheek
is the best part
waving at strangers stuck
at the top of the Ferris wheel
every time we come around.
Sep 2016 · 560
Greenfield Village
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Greenfield Village

Henry Ford looms large
The length of River Rouge
Lower and Middle and Upper and Rouge River proper
Abraded by scars
Mouth cankered and scowling
Zug Island wrenched
To a permanent sneer behind
The kid gloved hand of his beloved Fairlane
Wandering Potemkin near the end
Head an empty lot webbed
In figure eights of snowy plaque.
We walked down the lane
From Firestone Farm
Past stubble field
Late one winter afternoon
Searching for the rope swing
In the old chestnut tree
Ordered hung there perhaps
By the old man himself.
I raced twilight
Edges dissolving
Sent you higher and higher
Prayed you would catch a glimpse
Of abiding light that silvers
The edge the world.
Sep 2016 · 612
From A Neighbors Yard
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
From A Neighbors Yard

Our house lies
at berth a liner
bleeding brass
spokes of light
that fan the pocket
porch tucked beneath
its snowy blanket
ashore to shovel out
on the trailing
edge of this storm
one eye on the gunwale
should she cast off lines
gauging my leap
through a child’s
ecstatic chalkboard scribble.
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Turning Sixty Easter Morning After
Tearing Down the Old Shed

Christ and I; we rose
early, slowly, gingerly,
but we rose.
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Crazy Horse Waits For Neil Young

Working their way through the Harvard Classics
half-moon reading glasses perched precariously
on their noses, dozing off from time to time
myoclonic twitches jolting hands and feet
that pine to plug in and mark time, dreaming

of that bait shop in the Maldives with a cooler
full of Bud where a man could do some combing
on the beach and wait for the sea to rise
or the pending call that sends them up the attic
stairs on a frantic search for their carry on

luggage and the worn out Converse and that  
lucky tee shirt from Rust Never Sleeps.  Never
a doubt, not one; well maybe a few but
the changes and chords will come wandering back
and the chorus to ******’ Up practically

sings itself, but in the meantime the checkbook
needs attention and a grandson’s home from Helmand
and isn’t the Lipitor running low?  
Two chapters left in Moby ****, they eye the
phone convinced again tonight’s the night.
Sep 2016 · 265
Short Fiction
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Short Fiction

Before sitting down to write a story
I’ll think up a character with a few
miles on him but not so many as to
put him to sleep by nine leaving our eager
third person narrator little to do
but describe the layout of the bedroom
furniture of uneven pedigree
clutter enough to suggest spiritual disarray
well within acceptable limits
but worth keeping an eye on
suggesting sotto voce a second character
someone with a few hours to ****
in Wiesbaden or Banda Aceh
poling a spoon through black coffee
gone cold in a spider vein cup
the slightest shift of a knee twisting
the plot around the discovery of a memory
stick taped to the underside of his café table
“Marnie-LA” labeled in red.  
I write some muscular verbs to wrestle
him onto to an overnight train to Split and shift
to an unreliable first person singular
narrator who finds himself wincing
into a coffee cup at daybreak
feathery words crumpled on the grass
beneath the window
confused by their own reflection.
Sep 2016 · 2.1k
The Butler Model of Tourism
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
The Butler Model of Tourism

I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,

to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself

down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet

to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple

I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row

as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows

disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”

him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Sep 2016 · 257
Eggs
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Eggs

It’s a habit of mine to pause a beat
to dwell on the egg, the essence
of ****, before I crack one ker-whack

on the yawning lip of the cast iron skillet
broken promise of shell a favorite
metaphor of poets, embryonic

and otherwise, pop and sizzle sunrise
of yolk a buttery shorthand for brains
hopelessly scrambled, fated for plating.

East Egg or West Egg?  The courtesy bay
glitters in the moonlight as I huddle
with the rest, slumped in thin tuxedos, eggs

balanced just so on shifting feet, poaching
ourselves advantageous angles, the light
on Daisy’s dock green as Seuss’s vile eggs.
Sep 2016 · 205
Sunset
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Sunset

Remember North Manitou
years ago? pressed up against
the portside window
on an overnight flight to Dublin,
spilling dye downtown
above the left field bleachers,
finger painting the suburban skies
of my childhood racing
to beat the streetlights,
floating fire on Lake Superior
too many times to count, Malibu
two nights one July,
sashaying drunk on magenta,  
going off to pout in the dark
when I called you a show off.
You’ve seen me at my worst,
I know your all your florid secrets,
little wonder we’ve grown
to resemble one another,
incandescent palettes leached
wicking gunmetal horizons.
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Forgotten Printmakers of the 19th Century

Scent of wet leaves
sharp signpost leavings
on every rock and tree
from here to The Women’s Club turnaround
expectation of another stale treat
from the sidewalk bin at Café Muse
sheer ecstasy of your kind on leash
in numbers enough to banish
any thought of Sir Francis Seymour Haden
not to mention Adolphe Marie Timothée Beaufrere
and that unabashed vulgarian Louis Legrand
from the soulful clutter inside your head.
Edgar Chahine and Paul Gavarni
even Achille Deveria
are absent from my own
this autumn afternoon
still swimming with the artless
death of my mother
grateful on this end of the leash
to be led back home
in such agreeable silence.
Sep 2016 · 309
Felt Board
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Felt Board

In Sunday school we strained

     to hear sandals scraping stone
             snap and crackle of kindling

     echo of gospel songs sung
                             in three part harmony

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego

     overlays free floating
                    smiles all around, fronting

    a fiery furnace more
                    beehive than crematorium  

Nebuchadnezzar scowling

     from the soft verge of his velvet palace
                  hush of orange aloe leaves

     licking the plush pink
            feet of an angel hovering over

the muffled din of a passing July morning.
Sep 2016 · 222
Clay
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Clay

A shoulder of clay cut with runnels
set to music, round notes, fat plucked

chords sustained in eternal cascade
from the concertina of the spooling Manistee

above Red Bridge, blue blazes worn
smartly by these still, mute sentinels,

their averted gaze twining into
graceful arches that usher us from one

moment to the next, fine capillary
weave stretched over rib of stabbing light

that illuminates slick kaolin veins,
a surgical tent to conceal rending fingers

plunged into the wound, our faces
smeared, the trees thrilling to our howls.
Sep 2016 · 291
Cava
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Cava

We’ll order cava in smallish glasses
from the café with wispy tables on
the plaza pocked with sunburnt bullet holes

sprayed from the hips of passionate men
sporting snap brimmed hats dipped low on one side,
veiled arched shooting eyes righteous, unblinking,

dark slots that screened smoke from hand rolled
cigarettes, great-grandfathers perhaps to
our waiter and the fellow seated

at a table for two embroiled in a lilt
pas de deux that seems friendly enough to
a pair of short term expats who don’t speak

the lingo but savor it’s tuneful swing,
the parry and ****** of slender hands, pairs
of small deft birds winging this way and that

until one brace breaks off with a flourish
to nestle beneath a tray of smallish
glasses that lifts and soars, borne off on the

salty breeze while the other two alight
around a beaded glass of cava and
a lazy smoke, time marked in wispy whorls.
Sep 2016 · 281
Rump of Summer
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
**** of Summer

Summer is dressed in her finest, a day spent at the beach
Shoreline stroll in black burkini, a walk out on the reach
But fall arrives with a nightstick to roust out all the crooks
Take it off gals or go back home, give those nuns the hook.

Donald Trump is off his meds, his rocker and the rails
Breitbart soars in media-world, alt-white the color of its sails
Ugly game within a game, give Hillary the ***** prize
Trump aims higher, Orwell-land, where two plus two is five.

Hillary Clinton wants my vote, got it stashed in a pickle jar
They snuck in wearing bandit masks when I was at the bar
Ransacked the place, her gang of thieves, Bill and some Wall Street thugs
She got my vote but I drew the line when she came back for a hug.

Our Revolution, rally true believers, Bernie’s still our man
Hot like a blintz on Clinton’s ***, but for Wasserman, it was in the can
Jeff Weaver at the wheel, twenty-seven dollar donations on the gas
Can’t this thing go faster? Jettison staffers and top it off with cash.
Sep 2016 · 159
Sixth and Alexander
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Sixth and Alexander

A temporal fold
at the northeast corner
I never bother

to map, a cleft, benign
despite the dogs  
lingering skittishness,

to drain off
all but the moment,
we slip inside

to shed this load
our house a yellow beacon
through a veil.
Sep 2016 · 188
Rock and Roll Memoir
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Rock And Roll Memoir

It was too **** loud
I never liked Bobo
our first drummer
            or
was he the third?
The riffs?  Stolen.
Lyrics written
by a callow youth
still torment me
to this day like a
                                            s
                                     w
                                                a
                               r
                                                     m
                                      of
                          b
                                        e
                                                    e
                                    s
My obituary
a bit of boilerplate
written by interns
at Rolling Stone
lays waiting
patiently
for the call.

I don’t remember
      in any particular
   order
the origin
                                             of the band name
                     the outcomes  
                                                   of
                                                             the lawsuits

                                            what happened
           in Houston


penning “Love Carburetor”
                                                                             on the bare
***

                                   of a groupie named Skyyy

                      

           writing
                    a song cycle

                                           about the Laps                      
riding  
  
                                 in ambulances
           limos


helicopters

or

                                                                                     punching
Bill Graham

on the sidewalk
                                                               in front of

                                                  the Fillmore                                
                                                                                                    


                                                                                                    East.

If you say
we played Farm Aid
twice, well
I guess you would know.

I can’t ****
standing up
or hear a word
you’re saying
and my doctor says
we must get
a handle on my liver
before we think
about replacing my
knees
hips
corneas
heart and lungs.

But I’m booked
to a ten night stand
at the Beacon
with the New York Philharmonic
performing our first album
in its entirety
with our original bassist Ian
somebody or other
plus interviews
on Fresh Air and Morning Joe
to promote a concert
film by Jim Jarmusch.
Sep 2016 · 1.0k
Venus of Willendorf
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Venus of Willendorf

You seemed so distant
Cool and aloof on slide
Perhaps I was projecting
In the warm dark womb
Of Lecture Hall B
A silent world but for fan racket
From the Kodak Modal 4600
Eager to please on stiff little legs
Nosing toward the screen
Where you teetered
On impossible feet
Fighting a losing battle
With gravity I found
Touching, *******
No one could ignore
A chassis built
As the bluesman said
For comfort not for speed.  
I hear Willendorf is nice
This time of year
Hint of fertility in the alpine air
Your crazy braids beckoning  
Braille to a blind man.
Sep 2016 · 225
One Night, Late Summer
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
One Night, Late Summer

The Harvest Moon presides
But won’t presume
A promise to itself
Despite imploring wood smoke
In spite of homing embers
Rising to swarm  
A Janus face
Waxing luminous as royal jelly
A weather eye on the waning
Bound to come
Willing for the moment
To look the other way
While I haul on this lasso
Your upturned eyes enameled
With amber gleam.
Sep 2016 · 258
I Posed For Matisse
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
I Posed For Matisse

He uncoils me like a skein of yarn
Paying out behind beach glass lenses
Scouring the remains of the day
For watery sifted light

His hand spry as a piper through
Twisted Hamelin streets
Spavined fingers confounded by buttons
Quick and nimble once again

Fat bolt of graphite swanning
Around an empty dance floor
To strains of a silent waltz
While my skin pools in goose flesh

Bobbin spun free, hip, *******, neck
Described in a dearth of line
God struck mute as I slip
Demurely behind the screen.
Sep 2016 · 194
Gratitude
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Gratitude

So proud you never killed
anyone driving drunk as a lord
in my car on school nights
late on weekends after tossing
your filthy apron and clocking
out ripe and sloppy on wedding
screwdrivers gulped on the sly
engulfed in great gouts of steam
issued forth from the big Hobart
a purification ritual that rendered
you invisible until I could melt
away into the sober night
make good my escape yet again.
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Cemetery Beautiful, Avenue Love, Row Paradise

Coordinates given by poets
Will take you in circles
Business forgotten in the search
For words to compare a rainy afternoon
To a blue boat with a white sail
Best all of them chose
Cremation in the end
Ashes scattered to the four winds
Like milkweed in spring.
Sep 2016 · 184
Rocks
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
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.
Sep 2016 · 423
Seven Foot Sickle Bar Mower
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
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.
Sep 2016 · 589
Durable Medical Equipment
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
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.
Sep 2016 · 231
Algoma Guardian
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
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.
Sep 2016 · 188
Library
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
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.
Sep 2016 · 228
Sleep Arrived
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
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.
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
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.

— The End —