Circle Poem: Thyroid Scan

The tangled skein of fibers in the dark
That in the dark reveal themselves, benign
Or not benign when traveled by the spark
Of many sparks that fulminate the sign
Each isotope, a sign that forms the chain
The radiation chain that burns a mark
The surgeon finds the mark to peel the skein
The tangled skein of fibers in the dark

Slam Poem #1

Picture it
People colliding in slapdash collections
Bouncing into one another
Midday
And exchanging clothes right then and there
Shoes and handbags and everything
Discomfitted
Waddling away into their afternoon task lists
Chafing their heels and scapulae
Irritated
Bumping once again as evening plummets forward
Into yet another group of the faux-transformed
Wearied
And exchanging viruses and expectations right then and there
Spirochetes and phages and post-doc plans
Promising
Eyes pleading into eyes as if this had never happened before
Just take what you find in silence
As we have
Accept your place in this asymmetric polygamy
Do something with that size-four slingback neurosis you're leaving with
Concentrate
Tomorrow there will be another twist of tissues
I will be where you are now and in that same configuration
Picture it
We have always and will always do this on purpose
The hot sheen of your forehead for the swollen bunion on my left foot
Synonymy
Passionate infections and benevolent impact each and every time
Smacking headlong into the angles of our dance
Forever

Circle Poem: A Song That Whitman Never Knew

I SING the Body electric;
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul.
                                           Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1883)

I sing a song that Whitman never knew
He never knew nor ever felt the din
Within the metalled din I answer to
With fiber-optic answers on my skin
This insulated skin that rides the ring
And in the ring remakes the matter true
More true than all the masters knew to sing
I sing a song that Whitman never knew

The Artifice of Water

The desert is beneath us

And the artifice of water

And our smoke is like the shadow

Pulling primrose from the stone

And we're standing, as they're standing

On the fingers of Tecumseh

In the mouth of Massapequa

In the ancient dance of bone

We have ladled over everything

A seamless intervention
And the roundness of perfection
And the sharpness of our flight
But the dunes beneath the diners
Are the aquifers forever
For the flesh and fur and feather
Hidden silent from our sight

Circle Poem: The Old Man Writing Letters By The Fire

The old man writing letters by the fire
The quiet fire that pulses in the grate
The antique grate acquaintances admire
And thus admire the symbol of his fate
His lonely fate, obscured when he began
A boy, began in fullness of desire
Of pure desire now trapped within the man
The old man writing letters by the fire