The Salamander Enclosure

The naked mole rats huddle together
like sausages in their artificial burrow.
These shuddering onionskin creatures seem
so easily crushed, so vulnerable,
yet their curved teeth can chisel through concrete,
hence the special resin that forms 
their worming tunnels, the thick clear plastic 
that allows us to watch them stumble blindly
through their mazes beneath this molded, painted 
model of the desert. 

Limp sardines splash into the pool, flung from a bucket
by a portly attendant. The penguins, remarkably good
at exactly one thing, bullet through the water,
snatching the silvery fish before they can sink to the bottom.
Liquid transforms these plump, waddling blobs
into graceful angels, bobbing and coursing so quickly it seems
impossible that they don't collide, or knock into the observation glass 
the schoolchildren press their spread palms flat against.

A fruit bat hauls itself across the ceiling,
its claws hooked in the chain link mesh.
It stares with  black glass eyes and bares its teeth,
thrusting a sharp snout into the crotch of a potential mate
before suddenly mounting her from behind.
Both of them hang there, ears pointing toward the ground, 
jiggling wildly for a few moments before he untangles himself 
and once again goes lurching off, claw by claw 
across the cage, choosing for the moment not to drop into flight.

When I'm finished spying on the various trails these animals trace
through the earth, through the water, through the air, 
when I'm done pondering their various forms of locomotion,
I follow the asphalt path that twists between their enclosures
and exit onto the street, to resume my own flickering life,
wondering who is standing outside my cage,
watching this strange beast navigate its way between the flames 
of the civilized world.

Ironman (Dried Papaya)

Flying home after spending Thanksgiving back East,

I strike up a conversation with the mouselike woman in the next seat,

traveling alongside her daughter, who has just competed in 

an Ironman triathlon down in the Yucatan.

They are from Canada, but now reside, like me, in Portland.

The daughter is perhaps twenty, her bright orange hair 

glowing pale against her deeply sunburnt skin.

She wears a t-shirt and shorts and all through the flight

she keeps standing up and stretching in the aisle,

flexing her thick, muscular thighs despite 

the flashing fasten seat belts sign.

There is quite a bit of turbulence. “We’ll be hitting

some isolated pockets of bumpy air,” warns the captain,

his voice tinny through the intercom. 

 The stewardesses finally force her to sit.

She fidgets in her seat like a restless thoroughbred.

At one point the young athlete produces a plastic baggie 

full of long, translucent orange strips of fruit.

She takes one out and bites into it, then waves the bag at me,

across her mother’s lap. “Papaya?” she offers.

I decline but she shakes the bag, and I don't want to be rude,

so I gingerly pull out a piece and gnaw on the end.

It’s thick and squared off and rubbery.

I’m hungry, having forgotten the box of beef jerky

my mother bought me for my trip back to the West Coast.

I can see it sitting right where I left it

atop the low bookshelf of my sister’s old room,

which is finally after all these years being converted into a guest room. 

She moved out years ago, but recently fled the time zone

to relocate for a more lucrative job. She’s the favored child,

the baby, the successful one in the family. 

She’s the one winning the race while I remain winded, 

trudging far behind. The possessions she abandoned 

in her old room when she graduated

are being boxed up and stashed in the crawl space. 

The walls will be given their first fresh coat of paint in years.

I awoke in that same room this morning,  

and had trouble escaping from that big plush bed. 

Groggy, I gathered up the last few items I hadn’t packed,

stuffing them into my already bulging suitcase,

making sure to throw away the empty envelopes and wrappers

I’d strewn about during my stay.

That box of smoked meat, bought by my thoughtful mother,

is the only remnant of myself left behind, her forgetful, ungrateful son.

It’s a minor thing, I know, but for some reason, it upsets me.

It seems emblematic of all the ways I’ve let my mother down

over the years. I may be less self-destructive

than I was when I was young, but after all this time

I still struggle to pay my bills, have not managed

to produce any grandchildren, and I’m sure as hell

not running any marathons. I barely function as an adult.

And to compound my guilt, she will no doubt

waste the postage to mail that box of jerky across the country,

no matter how much I beg her not to bother.

Crab Nebula

On the solid wood counter sits a jar
bursting with a bouquet of black drink stirrers
like a bundle of hollow black bird bones, slightly shiny
as if carved of obsidian, or anthracite,
rather than just mass-produced in cheap plastic. 
Suddenly I'm tired of trying to salvage 
the worthless crap of this world. Why
should it fall to me? Easier to turn my back to it,
or just pretend I don't see it, just like everyone else does.

No. Once you've focused your attention on the banal,
you can't look away. You can try to forget it exists
but it'll still be embedded there, buried beneath the skin.
A tiny grain, a poppy seed so dense that it will suck
everything else in the world through it. The universe compressed
and reflected in the stalked eye of a baby crustacean,
a creature small enough to perch on the tip of your pinky

with claws too soft and tiny to pierce your skin
as it scuttles sideways across the bumpy terrain of its world,
your palm, both of you, all of us, spinning slowly along
the edge of that whirlpool, the current carrying us toward
that crushing black center. I yawn, too exhausted to do anything more
than float along with it. Maybe I will be squeezed through
to exit somewhere else, landing much diminished
in a world where nothing is banal, everything is extraordinary,
the sky constantly filled with exploding stars.  

Denver Layover Poem for Monica JR Llewellyn

Here in the food court of the Denver Airport, 

I huddle at a tiny table no bigger than my tray,

listening to the airport staff annihilate the names 
of foreigners over the intercom.

Every few minutes, I hear them announce

“Monica JR Llewellyn, please pick up the white courtesy phone.”

I wonder what the chances of Monica JR Llewellyn

ever reading this poem are. Infinitesimally small.

I dip my chicken tenders in their little tub of sauce 
and methodically munch. This is just like hanging out 
at the mall, only with Tornado Shelter signs.

To my right, two lithe, pale women twitter in some eastern European tongue.

The only English words I can make out are “American Dream.”

You can't make this stuff up. Well, you shouldn't. To my left 
sits a pudgy black woman in a tight-fitting suit 
with shoulder pads you could launch a small aircraft from. 
She slurps lo mein noodles that strip the burgundy paint from her lips.

None of these women, apparently, are Monica JR Llewellyn,

or if they are, they are discourteously ignoring the requests 

to pick up that white goddamn telephone. 
Maybe Monica is off having sex somewhere...this is what I always 
think about during layovers. What better weapon 
to kill a couple of helpless hours

than a tryst in an empty conference room, or  make-out session

with a stranger in a deserted lounge somewhere?

What better way to fight, or at least make use of, the crushing anonymity

of being a traveler? You've already been reduced to a cypher,

herded through lines like cattle, x-rayed and perhaps even patted down

for hidden weapons, that magic wand run up and down your body,

waved across your crotch. The foreplay's already out of the way! 

Prostitutes could make a bundle here, perhaps renting out storefronts

like the newsstands and duty free shops. The airport could demand

a percentage of the profits, taking advantage of the abundance

of bored businessmen looking to make the most of their down time.
You can only do so many crosswords, only read so many trashy paperbacks.
And what man wouldn't exchange his laptop for a lap dance?

Flights delayed by inclement weather would no longer be a bother, but a boon.
Hell, I would love to tear that big woman's shoulder pads off,
or show those skinny Europeans a real American Dream.
I hear it again: “Monica JR Llewellyn, 
please pick up the white courtesy phone.”

She's out there somewhere, that little vixen, 
or maybe not: maybe her cab got in an accident 
on the way to the terminal. Maybe she's having second thoughts
about the plastic explosives smuggled in the soles of her pumps.
Maybe she had a heart attack and is slumped 
in a ladies room stall just around the corner 

of the same fast food place where I bought this fried chicken which, 
sadly, I have finally finished, still having two dull, sexless hours to slog through 
until my plane, long delayed, finally begins the boarding process.

I hope she makes her flight.

Permanent Stubble

As I reach into the medicine cabinet

for the can of shaving cream, I spot the box of tampons
she bought back when we were first dating
and kept at my apartment for those rare occasions
when she slept over and was caught off guard

by the premature arrival of her period.
I will not touch this feminine hygiene product IED

for fear that jostling the box might trigger
a paroxysm of sentimental memories. 

So it remains, half-buried beneath a quiver of Q-tips 

and cartons upon cartons of band-aids stockpiled 

as if in preparation for an onslaught of tissue-dabbed nicks, 

expecting to staunch the flow from one thousand tiny cuts.
I close the cabinet door and see her reflected in the mirror,

perched on the edge of the tub with her smooth legs crossed
beneath her little skirt. Blood runs down her calves

to fill her pumps. She always liked to sit there

as a witness while I shaved, used to shoplift 

fresh blades from the pharmacy so her face 

would not get scratched raw by my bristles. 

But that was back when we still kissed, 

before our garden plot grew choked with weeds. 

Back when I’d still bother to slap my cheeks 

with stinging aftershave. I spin around 

but no one’s there. Replace the razor on the sink’s cool rim

and wash the mask of lather from my chin. The faucet 

drips. I flee the bathroom with my fingers wet

and my beard intact, unable to bring myself to part 

with a single hair if she’s not there to watch.

Leap Year is here!

It’s here, folks; my new book of poetry! Just in time for Valentine’s Day, though to be honest, anyone who would actually buy this for their sweetheart should have his or her head examined, though there is some sex in it, and even some romance. But it’s mostly about, uh, suicide, so... probably not going to get you laid or anything. Still, it’s awesome, and at only eleven bucks, it’s a real bargain! I mean, eleven bucks for POETRY? You probably feel guilty paying that little, but don’t worry! I’ve got a day job! At least, right now I do! Who freaking knows in this economy? Anyways, just buy the damn thing already. It’ll change your life...very, very slightly.   Leap Year

 

                     

Factotum

Claude knew that his life was meaningless

but he could never manage to save up enough box tops

to send away for the document giving him permission to kill himself.

He spent every evening after work decomposing on the couch until

his girlfriend delivered an ultimatum: that he find himself a hobby, or forfeit

all bedroom privileges. Claude fought her at first;

he had always looked down upon such useless pursuits

as stamp collecting and model train enthusiasm.

But desperation and the limits of self-gratification

made him at last attempt to discover some new interests.

Poking around on the internet, he came across

some old black-and-white footage of a hamster beating a drum, and grew

obsessed with it, watching it repeatedly until it took on the significance

of a religious icon in his mind. He even built a small temple to the rodent

which he accidentally burnt down while lighting some sticks of incense.

Disillusioned, he turned to the stock market for solace,

making wild investments in companies like Jell-O and Snapple.

He tried to start a James Woods fan club in his basement

but not even the promise of free Jell-O was enough to entice anyone to attend.  

Finally, he started buying antique barber poles from auctions.

He had them mounted on the front of his house, dozens of them,

along with a sign declaring This is NOT a barber shop,

this is a private residence. Please do not block the driveway

to alleviate any confusion. His girlfriend was less than impressed

by his efforts to fill his life, but Claude didn’t care.

He didn’t have time for her now anyways.

Winter Takes All

A flock of pigeons lifts off.

A shuffled deck of cards

Limbs tremble as a tree realizes

it's holding a losing hand

Calculi

Brimming with rum, Claude grew sleepy in the sun

and conked out in the hammock strung between the elms.

The afternoon being unseasonably balmy,

the earthworms surfaced and spread their blankets.

They unpacked their picnic baskets and passed around

the dirt sandwiches, uncorked bottles of bubbly mud champagne.

Being creatures comfortable with slime, they didn't dive for cover

when it started to rain, even though the droplets smelled unusually pungent.

Had they eyes, they would have noticed that the shower possessed

a definite golden sheen, as it was, in fact, Claude's urine,

sprinkled liberally across the grass, Claude being too drunk

to stumble inside, or even bother to aim properly.

Indeed, the oblivious invertebrates cavorted merrily 
in the downpour, that is, until it turned to hail.

Song for Adam Smith

Valets in red jackets huddle in the doorway of the social club,

emitting little puffs of breath as they watch the streets flood

with well-dressed couples in tuxedos and heels,

followed by musicians lugging black cases which conceal

cellos, oboes; all of them flowing away from Symphony Hall, 

on the second floor of which, through a window I can see a tall,

severely balding young man 
pacing back and forth with a cell phone in one hand

and a trombone in the other, white sleeves rolled up. 
He seems agitated, chattering nonstop.

Finally he slips the cell into his pocket

and starts to play; at least it looks like it.
I can’t hear a single sharp or flat through the glass. 

He swings the bell; light polishes the brass.
He pumps the slide enthusiastically, strutting like a lunatic
around the room, every movement duplicated

by the wall-length mirror. I’ m frustrated:
what good is music you cannot hear?
“Come out into the street,” I want to yell, “and share
your gift with those of us who can’t afford a seat
in the back of the hall, much less the balcony.”
But why should I begrudge this musician
this self-indulgent moment of enjoying his isolation?
It just seems like a tease, like being at a peep show
and longing to touch the girl behind the window.

The muted notes tumble out until 
he’s knee-deep in them; kicked up, they swirl
through the air like confetti snowflakes.

A comely flautist in a camelhair coat takes
my attention away with her for a moment,

and by the time she returns it, the target of my voyeurism
has packed up his instrument

and flicked off the lights. He pulls the door behind him,
his music left behind in melting piles, going to waste,

as across the street, one of the valets 
begins to whistle a lively but out-of-tune melody.
I savor each generous note of his discordant charity.