Rapid Rapid,

someone put a big hole in the sky,
really gouged it with a knife--

now it's raining blood, a red torrent
from a geyser pointed the wrong way;

small children are washed off their feet
and drown in a sticky salty confusion;

animals lick their chops, then die of
thirst next to their ruined watering holes;

crazy old men put on their life jackets
and take out their canoes, hoping not to

get caught in a traffic jam as the
river on Main Street begins to clot,

and I stand there sheepishly holding a
kitchen knife, wondering if this time,

my anger against the heavens
has gone a little bit too far.

Listen! At thirty thousand feet--the lull
in the air; one hears the jet engines' din
which carries thoughts beyond this hull
here, a forgotten art of list'ning in

on hearts--the whispered conversations of
mine, yours, and theirs, that far below this bast-
tion of complacent steel turn to above:
hearts beating sorrow, clear and plaintive, past

their liquid pain like molten glass poured out,
placed in a mold, blown up, smoothed over, played
with, and reduced to an expensive clink;

there's no one listening, yet we must think
to listen, that in hopeless straits we're stayed
by hope, by proof in love, beneath our doubt.

Death in green overalls, pitchfork wielding
denim baby, gouge my eyes out and dream,
scream there's a gentleman on the corner
a brown-nosed seer-sucking expert coroner
with a knack for vegetables. Where is

The knife? Alack
there's the knife, who caked with the delight
of killing at the threshold of my life stands,
demands remembrance see how it

Flies in nobody's eyes delight
it flies and cuts thin air it
cuts the rut of life, the nuts
in the house a nut house--

And how would I relate?

There's no sand left, the minute hand
has left the clock, and along with it
tumbling through the furrows of the ridges
of my mind the ink stains

Stained. And death is a stain on a white linen sheet

Percolate black, a webwork of irony
and in the middle there is nothing.

I was excited for
a
moment there

not even "Grecian
Urn" could have
come close,

but mixed metaphors
like mine
are murderously
beyond

redemption

Smothered love;
Burning love;
She's dead...
across the threshold, he got his gun
from inside his shirt,
and a narrow airshaft
clattered against the black darkness
into which a few flakes of white

I'm hungry!
smoke filled basement;
blue-coated screaming siren;
She's dead...
And love is dead,
the coroner rapped on the familiar
landmarks of his perdition
and throbbing, shrieking, a wave of sound
crested the cradle,
denied him to the grave;

There there, a maze of white
sun-drenched rooftops lies in wait,
and suddenly there was silence.

20 May 2005, Words from Native Son, by Richard Wright

She's worth a bowl of zucchinis, round
gold medals of summer squash,
salty sweetness in a one pound
can of tomatoes, italian style;
green yellow bell peppers, washed
and buffed like waxy plastic; for her
the chopped up yellow reds smile,
vidalias grease the air, sting the eyes;

Tell it to her on a platter--
a little giddiness in disguise,
and feed her in spoonfuls of laughter;
a secret in the napkin-folds,
the noodle-creases, the lies
and truths served with panache
in the entrée, feelings told,
swallowed, and later found.

The proprietor of a Starbucks is stabbed
and the parking lot erupts in flames;

the aftermath--a stew of sirens, metal,
and oily debris, garnished with burning gasoline.

Nuclear winter settles down upon the mall,
pulsating silence and a death-defying chill;

the shoppers out of the drugstore pause
to let the poisonous air brush their shoulders

as a silent shiftless explosion hangs
in the air, like a sigh across their minds.