in my youth, I hitched a ride to San Diego, across
chirping desert and distant night, I gazed upon a slow-moving
dark, encasing a convex cerulean cavity
with the pattern and fear of all my dots—
by the old wharf on Naoshima
I make my yellow wartime pumpkins.
Now, let daybreak be my head and the year, my whole body.
An online southern Christian university ordained my smoker’s
cough to be a dove.
My favorite exorcism:
The demon, steeped in corn bread philosophy,
does not have enough ass to carry off the jeans he advertises
as he kneels down to the priest and holy water.
I found myself beside myself
in front of her house—with my
trench coat and lunch bag—
probably not looking much
like Shaft. Inside, the air held
warm milk and we talked a bit
about her baby and her Aunt
who paid the rent painting cars.
like the way I loved
cologne, venturing teenaged into
congested malls, abusing testers
only a salesperson surly enough
Watts bleeds
on vacant lots
and burned-out buildings–
temples desolated by a people’s rage.
A local official came to our office to ask our help with a city event. He had a splendid idea, he said. To kick off the event and show everyone in town that our tribe was still around,
pulls out her roasting pan
climbs the kitchen counter
teeters and grabs
for twenty minutes
at last claps on the lid
walks her prize outside
refuting another’s vision
of a cat’s eyes hunting in darkness.
So scary, he says, how the moon
hides in her red circle.