Sestina for a picnic

She threw the red one of the books
The black book he wound up to throw
He felt the red one whoosh by the sleeve of his short-sleeve button-down shirt, bitterly
She ducked but the black book clipped the side of her glasses
You fuck! She yelled
He wasn’t sure if he wished it had hit her square in the forehead

Now the back of his hand to his forehead
How did we get here? he thought, Throwing books?
It started when the deer appeared and he yelled
It wasn’t as if he would throw
a book at a deer but she lowered her glasses
and all of a sudden looked at him bitterly

How bitterly
she looked through him, burning a hole in his face, his forehead
He could see his own pitiful reflection in her glasses
responding to this look. They were just holding the books
and he asked her, Really? That’s the look you’re going to throw?
She responded, Who does that to a deer? You downright yelled

Sure I yelled
He said, bitterly
I wanted to see it run. With the tail. At least I didn’t throw
a book at it and hit it on its forehead.
On its forehead? exasperated, and looking at their books
Yes, he said. The sun glinted in her glasses

And this was not long after they had been in the grass drinking wine from fine glasses
The green and the loftiness of the trees were the only things that yelled
An interruption so magnificent, hindering the reading of books
An interruption they never would have minded bitterly
And he had pressed his forehead
into the ground, the moist earth, overwhelmed. To throw…

He would literally throw
into the blue of the sky the glasses
if he could know that this exquisite landscape could be grafted inside his forehead
always to be remembered. If not at the deer certainly he would have yelled
at the sky, not bitterly
but desperately simply for being so beautiful and exquisite enough to heave eyes away from books

But he had stayed quiet as they were reading their books, sipping from glasses
There was nothing to throw, moist earth on his forehead, sweet loam
And yet now upon exit, bitterly, and not for beauty, they both yelled

Sunday Sestina about Birds

Thunk lands the scrub-jay
startling the dove
whose beak was in her armpit
Next door, making all sorts of noise, is that chicken
The dove looks around
for the thunk-source of the sound

It was a thick clunk, really, the sound,
so heavy was the scrub-jay
from his feet to his crown, all around
Quite the mass of more than three doves
Stretch the wings from the armpit
Still crazy, insane, that chicken

What? What? What? What? screams the chicken
She hadn’t even heard the thunk sound
She was chasing her own armpit
She was unaware of the scrub-jay
She was going around and around and around
The heartbeats did slow in the dove

The dove,
so calm compared to the chicken
who was still going around and around and around
But the heaviness of the sound
How could something fly after such a thunk, that scrub-jay?
It was like he held lead weights in his armpits

The softest place on a bird is the armpit
Always protected, especially on a dove
Somewhat less so, on the scrub-jay
And it is a tasty place, of course, on the chicken
But we will not make that sort of a sound
Think not of eating, think around

that sort of thing, think around
Think nothing of eating the chicken’s armpit
That would be a horrible sound
to let escape from our mouths, said the dove
Don’t let her hear, don’t let the chicken…
She’s already half-mad, yes, Mr. scrub-jay?

Oh, yes, said the scrub-jay, certainly that chicken
is as insane as an armpit with no sound
Oh, yes, echoed the dove, and will you take me around?

My Spaz

I always look better next to my spaz
All kinds of junk
A nerve, senselessly oleaginous
Riddled to ribbon
It was not a thought for a long while, to separate
Through kicked up dust with the blood

Shot through with electricity, sweat, with blood
Such sudden pain, groped egos, from the spaz
Shake, slip, misunderstand—multiple and separate
A pathetic display of junk—
tangled ribbon,
oleaginous

It is that that—shake, jump, slip. When oleaginous
Upside down blood
Plug in electric blue ribbon
Make her go, my spaz
“Shut up, Junk!”
But it’s too late—sense separate

Oh, but the painmortification. Oh, but the sense, separate
receipt of response. Some oleaginous
My face, a composition of painlines, fear, embarrassed junk
My drained, manhandled blood
Inside fire doused by stoking through no oxygen; spaz
Everything discredited. Everything choked in gutflavored ribbon

Bent through sappy, food-drenched satin and knot-on knotted ribbon
Where does sex and calm separate?
Ego shoved out—handed about by my spaz—
expecting (at least) ambivalence and oleaginous,
expecting (at most) fortified, orgasmic blood,
always returning: a piece of junk

Always returned as junk
a Parsifalian hunt, overlooked, wrapped in ribbon
shot through my blood
I asked her to separate
Never—to her—oleaginous
I add, “Stay next to me, my spaz.”

Junk will separate
following ribbon, fie on oleaginous!
Blood warm, always with my spaz

A Conversation in Philadelphia While on the Way to Get Pizza.

In 1972, he asked, who was the mayor of Philadelphia? Rizzo.
I was born too, I said as if to everybody.
You know what I like about Philly? he said. Lorenzo’s.
Also, the girls are sweet and all have a little bellyfat.
I like looking out at the Schuylkill.
I liked riding the streets on my bicycle.

Where I live now, I said, I never ride my bicycle.
It sits in a dirty old garage, as dead as Rizzo.
He asked, how do you spell Schuylkill?
s-c-h-u-y-l-k-i-l-l. That’s asked by everybody.
Well jiggle my bellyfat.
Hey, let’s go get a slice at Lorenzo’s.

The Italian Market in South Philly has the original Lorenzo’s.
I used to ride there on my bicycle.
He said, enough about bicycles, let’s talk about bellyfat.
You know who had bellyfat? Big Mayor Rizzo.
On the way to the market let’s look at Shira’s mural of everybody.
I said, make a left here over the Schuylkill.

Onto the Spring Garden Street bridge; Powelton Village ahead of us; over the Schuylkill.
How’s this for gorgeous? What a mural. I can’t wait for Lorenzo’s.
She painted the neighborhood. Everybody.
I pulled him out of the street. Watch out for that bicycle.
Jesus Christ to Rizzo!
I think that bicyclist touched my bellyfat.

You don’t have any bellyfat.
That’s because every morning I swim in the Schuylkill.
Yeah right, and my father is Frank Rizzo.
You don’t have have bellyfat because you don’t eat enough Lorenzo’s.
Actually, I ride my bicycle.
Actually, you’re just not from Philly, like people I know. Everybody.

So you know everybody?
Shut up and touch my bellyfat.
Hmm, looks like someone else could use a ride on a bicycle.
If you don’t be quiet I’ll throw you in the Schuylkill.
You’re just getting’ tough ‘cause you’re from Philly. What you need is some Lorenzo’s.
Duh! By the way, how did we start talking about Rizzo?

I don’t know, but I think everybody should swim in the Schuylkill.
I think we should write a paper about bellyfat and Lorenzo’s.
Who I wonder was ever on a bicycle was Rizzo.