Selected Poems
Sweet Summer Sweat
When we were children, thought and did silly things
throwing our voices through the back of a caged metal fan.
We pitched words without emotion like helicon robots
into a vowel decapitating rotation of propeller blades
We play a proper part with whirling from another world.
We sent messages from outer space and heaven. Our
babble haunts the house with vagabond hot ghosts.
Years later, after a day going about our father's business
We try to sleep on his chesterfield struggling with summer
The oscillating fan begins to sing, pleading with us in psalms
humming hymns and repeating Mass responses with every pass.
A protestant box fan decides to speak in tongues to remind us
in prayer. We have not gone mad, yet. The devil plays tricks in our ears.
Seeking a comfortable spot on the sofa, we wrestle with ghosts we know
seeping through shut screened door from a totally darkened backyard.
Our eyes have not grown accustomed to night. Dripping sting gin sweat
we argue in robot voices, what we had done and what we had failed to do
There is nothing to hold us here. We cry to ceiling or sky, asking forgiveness
grapple with humidity and towel damp mediocrity, ashes until we all fall, asleep.
