She Doesn't Stop Dancing

She doesn't stop dancing
A spin, a smile,
A shuffle,
A plate, an order,
She twirls out
Corner diner
Fast food and pop music on the TV
Red seats with black-starred tables
Simple Döner
But this,
This was ballet
A song on her lips,
A smile on her face
And I wanted to go back to my own
Food service days
The rhythms of orders up
And orders taken
The pulse of work the rush

Text

A text message before bed
Means
I'm trying to share this with you
I wish you were here

Unemployed (Jobless Immigrant)

This week I applied for a visa to Canada, not my own.
This week
I played my song on Television.
This week I defeated a computer virus.
This week I took photographs for the National Theater's
version of the Mahabharata at a closed premiere for the
Indian ambassador.
I translated for a Finnish band at a concert.
I translated a 57 year-old acrobat's prayer.
I taught poetry to two of my friends.
I invited my friend to lunch
But ended up in a government office
Translating a form together.
I taught English.
I studied Kyrgyz.
I cheered my students as they danced,
Sang my songs in the park with a professional friend,
I wrung out my laundry with my hands.
I played frisbee for television.
I registered four people for an orphan conference.
I pitched names for a new business.
I pitched a film to a sponsor.
I cooked for a crowd.
I recorded songs.
I shared my story with students.
I sang to God with my friends and
I organized a picnic in the foothills beneath the mountains.
I gave relationship advice.
I wrote 10 songs
And a poem.

And I still ain't got no job.

On the Bus

Work ends around 10
Sleep at one am
Up at six
A known face
Carrying pots full of things
Cooking
"The pay is good"
Always running
Drooping breasts
Slouched eyes out
Out the window
Not much to say
Repunch the password into the phone four or five times
No new messages
Ring
Around eyelashes

War is Sexy

This poem is a response to a Shepard Fairey painting, Grenade.  


You've got a grenade

Where your head should be

You're a danger

To this family

Stroke your neck

Kiss your steel lips

War is sexy baby

Until we're all little bits

But maybe we deserve it.

On the Passing of CD Wright

For JL and Georgia

The poets are all dying

Or perhaps

We only notice them when they are old

It seems the greats are all gone,

We pretenders scratch in the dirt,

Hanging our heads,

Trying to muster up the ego to

Put down the words,

To pretend that poetry still matters,
And then, to edit,

To put on the mask, the forgotten art,

Chasing the lightning

That we once felt at our fingertips.

We too are growing old,

The ink spinning out of the plasma

From a tube in the arm

But death is always with us.

How much ink is left?

Altar love.
Bone love.

Grave love.

Thorn love.
After love.

Altar love.

After( )light.

"Pass with care."

An Honest Liturgy for the Americas

Our father

Who art desire

Holy are my feelings

Let them be fulfilled

Let me have my way

Even if it takes taking out a little credit

Fudging edges or burning some bridges

Lead me not into frustration

But deliver me from guilt

For Thine is the pleasure

And the climax

And the salve

And the earplug

Forever and ever

Amen.