Multiple Dimensions

In the city of death, in the American heart,
Russian scientists meditate

to slow the earth’s rotation. Target
the Van Allen radiation belts.

                                                    Only,

time travel’s not this safe.
I have flown this jungle. Traversed

the Americas before the scientists came,
before one thousand sighs

went north to work,

before traffic,
before wing remnants will twitch and tingle.

Thus,              order cold draughts spiked
with chile and lime.

A Celebration of America’s Refuse

Caught hiding stolen goods
under rolls
of body fat. Concealed
four pairs of boots
three pairs of jeans
a wallet and gloves.
The brassiere
already full. A bottle
of prescription pills
a large beaded change purse
an envelope cherishing
several uncreased photos
her reading glasses his
spare a little bottle of hand
sanitizer. Fat women can’t win
even. A John Waters movie.
Only short men climb.

Courtesy of Choice

A centuries old philosophy acknowledges differences and allows for harmony. A tidbit here and there. These mother fucking gang members mess with my hometown. I fall in love before breakfast to accommodate preferences. The bright orange bathing suit in the bathroom promises a stunning day, offers a spirit of conviviality. It used to be safe for someone on top to go cheap. Nowadays, it might as well be Mexico. A tortilla is not a biscuit, not cornbread, not apple pie. Not as American as Christopher Columbus. I ponder the sex life of snakes. Reptiles in every crevice. The problem with white folks is the sun. Good thing brilliant yellow eggs sputter diesel and history accumulates. An imagination is not about red shoes, but broken glass and pines in the wind. Cypress rooted to the blue hole. An assembly of percolating molecules sweetens the hand that curls around the things we hold.

Jeopardy

I forgot that white woman is the devil. Dangerous woman. Make a man soft. White woman make a man a woman. Serves me right, the falling. I should have seen it coming.

Devil baby. Sure as hell the devil. & vulnerable. Will it right the boat, this bit between my legs?

Always lists to starboard.

Take what you know is yours. I would have given it. But you never could ask, could you?

This boat never sails to weather.

Now, I’m here to tell you I can be ornery, too. I ain’t talking sewing circle nor tea party. No, I’m smelling fleshy like an iron.