sonnet 189: anchor

days of long ignorance & nights
of learning to refuse orders then thirty-two WHAM!
lactose intolerance! meanwhile
caryard monastery brewery sky &
a hint of cloud that fills you in (clouds,
you think, & the laugh track fades in & out
with your mood, like planning the future).
a ruptured syntax rubs you out & the drama queens
giggle nervously, bemused by breasts & the way
you hog the limelight, asthmatic wheeze notwithstanding.
is that the sea behind you?
who imagines semaphore? your tongue flicks
the tip of my nipple & we stick together,
vacant & toxic like a history of plague.

sonnet 195: 12 pages of loss

"Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you"
Frank O'Hara

olympic worker coughs up lung, ignoring
the no smoking sign taped above her booth
as a shiver moves across the city & the traffic,
glistening in the rain,
sounds like a group of puppies
speaking french at the next table,
white noise inventing history
with a story spelling bomb.

when drunkards hit the building site their haircuts
head for home, the surface of the living
addressing every worthy cause
with a phone call to the health inspector.
does the sun break through your argument?
possibly so.

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ted@magicdog.com -- 21 December 2000