Book o’ Verse

The pencil they gave me
was covered with paint. I scraped at it.
Artisan, whole-leaf paint chips
dropped off
in spidery clumps.
And now I can see, it is an artisan pencil.
Made by a man in the mountains of Peru.
Separated out from the base of a Peruvian Pencil Tree.
Peru.
It is a savage land.
And there’s my friend, the legendary artisan
with his Peruvian pencil-carving knife, its handle
snapped clean off
from the root of some
mountain vegetable.
Most of the knife is edible, in fact.
Even the blade.
But only if you cook it long and slow.
And who would eat such a thing?
Who would eat the knife cooked tender?
Someone with a pen, no doubt.
Or a typewriter.

do you remember being a goose?
do you remember flying in pairs
your neck pulled long and straight
warm feathering into the wind
your boney beak bobbing
far out in front to beats
pulsed sideways
by your partner’s heart?

Is it enough
to call the water
black to talk about
the swirls, the crack in
the floor of this Bay

That steams up
sleep evaporating
soaking into
a newspaper headline
till it has mighty heft

Is now a good time
to chalk it all up
this swirl and this crack
this slow-dripping heft 

to some sort of
vague, tectonic displacement?

Some foamy kerning surge?

“The eye of the storm
never hit land
although obviously the eye wall did.”
Obviously.
Like now we’re all supposed to know what an “eye wall” is.
Meanwhile: I’m having these dreams
where Mr. Roarke was originally
Tattoo and he’s saying
“The Plane, The Plane”
in rolling tones with a sweeping hand.
And then he gets promoted and the new Tattoo comes in.
And the new Tattoo thinks “Alright! I’ve got a job with upward mobility!”
But he’s wrong about that.
And those white seaplanes keep dipping down
slowing to a stop
while the eye wall of Tattoo
becomes dark, clustered, clumped.
Obviously.
As he floods on the inside.

Some say “no one should suffer simply because they have chosen to fall in love.”
But I’m not certain I agree.
Surely someone should suffer.
Surely. Someone should suffer simply.
Because they have chosen to fall.
But perhaps no one have chosen?
You think? Because they suffer then?
Perhaps they surely? Simply to choose?
I’m say not certain.
Surely to choose to love, yes?
Surely to choose perhaps
to love at last
to fall
simply because
but no one agree.

Thank you for the strut
even though I know
it wasn’t
intended
for me.

Pity poor Pol Pot’s cat.
Hitler’s hamster.
Fed by this thing.
Stroked by this thing.
By this skin
those nails
they scratch
that spot.
Pity poor Pol Pot’s cat.

Other people have smaller fingers
slender grave pincers
and they move fragments around.
The smallest
reposition dust to achieve a fine result.
Not children. I’m not
talking about children or
woodland creatures.
Other grown ups.
Living in crash pads
with thatched chairs and
acoustic proto-guitars
hung by the door.
Look at them. Look
at their work.

Wet ride this morning.
Chalk bricks trying to absorb
pulling it in cold wood
old wood.
Paper mats.
His wet feet uncovered, yes?
Flat cats lick his feet.
Vapor socks.
Lick sneaker pump.
Lick vapor swoosh.
And those feet stir.
Now he’s caressing some space saying:
“Hi. I will stab you in your leg.”
Really? Well.
I don’t see a knife.
Hopping past.
Hoping stone
soon dry
out.

held with small fingers
slips of bone
sometimes lose their names
change hue
as six dead gerbils shade
to four black mice
as two turtles become a snake
and goldfish replicate.