Man Emerging
Raise Every Voice, Except Not You, Fat Boy, You Stink
Start in G, she said
standing before us on a plywood pedestal
no, that was a lectern, us on plywood
steps, no those are called risers &
choir practice has begun.
How do I stand?
May I jam my hands into my hungry pockets
of worry, of embarrassment, of yet
another class to kill the time from
seven-thirty to eighteen years of age?
Deep breath, she says. Deep.
All boys here, unlucky you &
wait for someone else to lead
because I don’t know the song &
I don’t know how to diaphragm
breathe, how to rise to my pre-
pubescent range only boys have &
no, I don’t know, have no idea
where G is.
Not From Nottingham
On one side of the tracks
you sense the change of scenery:
the bones of branches, then the buds,
then the tents of summer green.
Not so on the other side. There the
chainmail bares its dull, metallic ribs
on the chest of its coarse and hoary hills.
You wake up on a train table among
a pride of purring Lionels.
You turn the dial on the transformer
until the conductor jumps onto the sleepers
with a megaphone to warn the world
that he is NOT from Nottingham.
He effs and blinds to the Plasticville walls,
and drops his darts
on tracks between windmill
and interchange
before shuffling off in a huff
Derealization
I’m slipping on soap
in a vision’s shower.
The tiles look teary
through the steam.
Water rises ankle deep.
Sink and mirror disappear.
Snow is falling on the TV.
Fires are raging in L.A.
Now the kettle wakes
and whistles
just in time
for tea.
Used Bike
Rust spots stain
my faded chrome.
My handlebars
veer left.
Gears that slip
and brakes that stick.
A seat that wobbles
riderless.
A few loose spokes.
Both tires worn.
One peddle
sniffing dirt
Trauma as Dreamer
I dreamt of that man’s
body as a falling animal,
draped in heavy cloth.
I knew, somewhere,
that by reaching him I could
be young, enough to live.
Between us were mountains,
thickets dotted
with lavender and rosehip.
In the hillside, churches
carved into earth so that
even the spires fell
below the tallest grass,
each with ornate windows
drowned in shadow.
I would call out to him,
this man of sharp bone, but
the sound arrived too late,
finding only the air
that held his shape, dropping
away with the sun.