The Weekly Commuter

A recent cup,
cheek-like
in hue and shape,
wonders whether
feeling full
is really better.

Under a red sweater
on the counter
two keys
listen: the cat’s wheeze
a sign nothing’s
pressing. Outside,
leaves wrangle
wild breezes and noon
eases into after.

In the new grass
a cat left his nap,
a sleep shape
where the stems
lie flat.

A naturalist, I collect
naps, but so does the rain
the clouds are threatening
and I don’t mind
giving in
to Spring.

awaiting rain

night descends without stars

deserted streets in winter

Under the hayflower
falling, we found her
seated, selling woven stuffs
in skirt relief
(delicate bird-lice
wax left
besting indigo bleeds).

Patterns, with the needs
of the wearer,
recede. Under the hayflower
falling, she felt
the fabric
folklore, soft
on the tops
of her knees, her feet,
light as lighting the morning
fire’s footfalls, dyed
vast shades of dawn,
twice as deep.

Any number of mounted bells
may ring,
unaware of the labor
their summons
foretell (a peal insists
as well as anything
sweet sounds
may sing
on behalf
of meaner meanings).

Little finger
of a moat
protect one side of this city
from another, neither better
for this strip of bay water.

One freeway
to tuck
under the other:
mother daughter,
shy toddler
of an on-ramp.

A lap of wet clothes
and a bottle,
a tramp and a backpack gang
tagging the insides
of factories.

They leave they’ll leave eventually.

Silt, settling
in your belly,
melting trench songs
men sang
in the days of industry
will fill you up, give herons
a place to step, drink
fish, and all of this,
these sad last
signs of settlement
will muddy-up.

Watching the 80th annual Academy Awards now and they’ve just finished with the annual run-through of all the actors, actresses, writers, art directors, composers, cinematographers, producers, directors, dancers, executives (executives? did I miss something? is this a new development? since when did they make the montage?) and others who died between February 2007 and January 31, 2008. The montage ended predictably with a shot of Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. The loudest applause! But my question is…

Where’s Brad Renfro?

Renfro, who got his start in 1994 at the age of twelve in The Client, died on January 15, 2008 of a heroin overdose, a week before Ledger passed. Why wasn’t Renfro in Oscar’s tombstone-tribute? Was he not enough of a star? Was he too…well, troubled? It’s true he hadn’t had a decent role since a turn in 2001’s Bully (dir. Larry Clark), but if his last completed role in the forthcoming Informers (based on the 1994 BEE story collection) is any indication, he might have been on his way to pulling out of his extended slump.

“But then again, no…”

Alas, ’twas not to be. The least they could have done was give ol’ Brad a second or two on the screen. He was one of them, wasn’t he?

It’s what we all deserve, isn’t it?

The future pales
to lavender
the way sunsets do,
the edge of the earth
the door
day departs through.

Shifting hearts, like low
dunes, still warm
with afternoon,
welcome night, unfixed
as new-sown stars.

George Bush speaks American

Shouldn’t you?

In need of a cloud
to carry us –
the kind that keep
a hold and move
like the wide world, so
imperceptibly slow,
past planets small
as stars, with the earth
so far below somehow
life stills,
the swirls of white
on blue
obscuring the shapes
of landmasses
we learned in school.