Improv 1 (week 10)

“If it’s been ten times it’s been forty-five
I’ve checked the man out in the car behind
mine, teeth bared, laughing in my rearview”
He’s not gripping the wheel, he’s only flailing
arms like a blow-up doll in the wind.
The same penciled-in strap-on face, he’s a rubber
look alike to my passenger.
Darlene is her name, all filled up ready
to go. I follow her suggestions:
wrong way down the one way, pull the brakes,
run this, skid into that, close the doors
tight while she melts, she makes a steady wheeze
the same sound after the air bags
pop. By evening’s pallor she is leaky:
her legs go first sucked dry by the sun.
She is deflation next to me.
But now, with the white toothed
laughter, his smile, his arms all
play for mirrors, all smoke.
He is the fake, the afternoon
soap opera and my blow-up
holding my hand, slowly easing out,
letting go.

Free Write 2 (week 10)

I want to spoon your straw into clouds. I want to
cloud your panting paws. I want the grain elevators
lit, a roman candle to the bushels-a-day
coots in their co-ops. I want the soapbox
step up to the hot air balloon
stopping somewhere between arch and horizon:
That McDonalds on Main Street. I want to take elevators
down the silo , that is to say, lifting me deeper,
damper, darker to the ground where my wants
meet my wishes and that fabled outlander
drops a stamp of enlightenment. I want
hands to cup liquid grace. I want
a ribbon at the end of the race.

Junkyard 4-5 (week 10)

"The mine devoured seascape: it's a punched out eye to the waves"

"Does all cash eventually drift back to timer, to sappy pulp?"

Junkyard 3 (week 10)

"the girl with corn starch hips and jello ass"

Junkyard 1-2 (week 10)

“dancing until the sticks fall”

“I assembled this evening with the help of screwdrivers”

Free Write 1 (week 10)

She was not a charity girl
with her Ardmore, Oklahoma
drawer full of pieces—an oyster
puckered and ready to give
lust for socialism, blush for thighs.

When I pitched my voice to
the swing set’s rusted upper swivel
each rock an ultrasound scrape
her bra straps beat like summer whispers
her abiding velvet in solitaire

there are many ugly bumps
on my body. there is only
that red abrasion: Hymenoptera
medical jargon for wasp sting
rising from her belly button.

Free Write 2 (week 8)

These aluminum alloy rims
will still be spinning after I’ve passed.
Picture it: down in a rut, that bottom-
fed-excuse-for-a-creek slinging
refuse at the end of my block.
I cut the corner with back wheel slipping
and front wheel nose diving. It’s a concerted
effort with these two, they chuck me like an old shoe,
dump my body to the creek. There I expire with the soured
plastic jugs, the mold on tin and the neighbors sink water
unable to wash me down, to forget.
Or was it the bike that let them know? Tires in the air
revolving somewhere between eighth and ninth gear, the rubber
repeating: more road, more road.

Junkyard 1-2 (week 8)

“These citadels of Disney innocence”

“Flipping burgers, I am the cow at this kids
fast food birthday.”

Free Write 1 (Week 8)

Up north, we’re recycling ice cores
mere samples unearthed: each slice the casing
of a story like the flicker
frames in a film canister.
Stories and histories
and the illusion of motion.
We like our pictures
spinning from reel to reel
our history being cylindrical,
our stories unraveling. Because
asking when does spring
turn summer? finds it’s appositive
theory in some uncountable number.
In layman’s terms: the New Year just
cuts another slice in the pie.

Meanwhile, on Coney Island,
a palm reader begins and ends
on the cusp. Nevermind the skin’s
creases or that ulcer at 35. They’ll
bore it out, band aid it white
with cotton balls.