Lucifer at the Starlite

If you can, give us a song.

You with the Crack Running Through You
I can seep in, I can dry clear.

And yes it would still be there.

And no I couldn’t hold you forever.

But isn’t it drafty at night,

alone in that canyon

with the wind of the mind

dragging its debris—

I wanted to put

my mouth on you

and draw out whatever toxin…

—but I understand. There are limits

to love. Here is a flower

that needs no water.

It can grow anywhere,

nourished on nothing.

And yes.

So I got my harmonica

and played a bit of Sonny Terry I’d been working on

and I don’t know if he listened, if it lit

a match to the damp cigarette of his joy

I can’t say, but maybe it did

in some small and unrecorded way.

unlike God who has forsaken us in favor of those who praise Him,

for I cannot praise Him with my awful strings, with my terrible

song,

I’ve got a broken knife for you.

You’re not dying for love,

you’re not even injured.

Not a scratch, not a nick,

no throb in the bones,

no slight headache

starting behind the eyes.

Some men will write obtuse, condescending reviews of your

work, making you remember these lines by Frank O’Hara:

I cannot possibly think of you / other than you are: the assassin / of my

orchards.

The Smallest Town Alive
has one sign:

NOW ENTERING NOW LEAVING

You’ve passed through & won’t

come back. Good-bye,

your life

was so many one-horse stoplights

swaying on wires

in a high wind

a lone dog crossing the street

at an angle

a flurry of porches

you won’t remember.

On this one I pose

barefoot in a dress

on the bottom step

an ice chip on my tongue

in my pocket a glowing coal

I am trying to crush

into a name.

Poetry after all is a form of barking.

I love you like I’m a strange backyard and you’re running from the

cops, looking for a place to stash your gun.

I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, except for this one

guy.

I love you when you’re not getting drunk and stupid.