deoxyribonucleic acid

a poem about love
without metaphors
is just an empty mailbox
at the end of a long driveway
that hasn't been opened
in a very long time.
inside of that mailbox
is a very long letter
describing the advancements
in the discovery of
the structure of
everything.
also inside the mailbox
past the letter
and past a spidery web
littered with exoskeletons
is the portal to
another universe.

rosalind closed her eyes
for once to black and not to molecular models.
it was all that she could say,
quietly and without
judgement or reservation,
"the salt of deoxyribose nucleic acid."

between blades of grass
sky-scraper sheets of waxy green
ants march in line
clearing house
cleaning up
don't they know
that they should unionize?

you roll over onto your back
breathe deep
and keep up with
the current economic crisis
while i count ants
and encourage them
to read marx & trotsky
you hit me with the new york times
and bring me back to
rising gas prices
and interest rates

an hour went by
we fell asleep
beneath the big old tree
in central park
you dreamed of type-writer sounds
and i dreamed of
martin luther king
on the balcony of
the lorraine motel
where i had just been
with my father
our dreams together:
type-writer gunshots
revolutions
stamped on paper
rolling through the presses
stopping by the editor's desk
for coffee and a bite of cake
trying to solve
crossword puzzles
(who gives a fuck about crossword puzzles, really?)
impressive on the train
she was
and the way she left the
subway
the time that i saw
natalie portman
on the a-train
(why the fuck would natalie portman ride the a-train? was she slumming it on her way up-town?)
maybe she just missed
being beneath the city
being tuned to sleep
by the smell of the rails
and the plastic seats
carefully curved
holding commuters
like orphaned children
(you tell me to shut up about natalie portman,
that it wasn't her,
that even if it was-)
maybe i just missed
getting her number
pretending that i didn't know
who she was
rinsing all recognition from my eyes
with my flannel sleeves
and impressing her
with my knowledge of
abandoned subterranean spaces

here is a secret:
i love you
because i know that
you don't really give a fuck
about frictional unemployment or gross domestic product or slip/strike economies
(there is no such thing, you made that up)
or anything except
sleeping
on
the
fire escape-

he was there fighting for workers' rights
i tell the ants
horrified by their indifference
towards dr. king
towards you
and towards me-

later in the day,
i say:
i never really gave a fuck about natalie portman anyway,
and you:
she'd break too easily
and she'd never pull you through
the window on the 14th floor
with two pillows
and a torn quilt-

the economics of
midnight
play
above 45th street
where the supply is
the history of new york city
and the demand
is fucking history for just a moment-

your back is bruised
wrought iron bruised
by your love of
making love
on the
fire escape.

girl arrested, 1920's

don't let her fool you.
she's a criminal.
she's undone the button on her blouse,
and she'll undo you the same.
it's a shame.

she smells like sage.
it's an old trick.
no, i don't think that it is, i think that she's a cook-
boy, no, she's a crook-
and i've seen her down the street-
she's a mage-
she was buying a leg of lamb, wearing an apron, smelling like sage-
she's good with a knife.
-i'd bet my life she's a sweet girl.
you'd risk your life.
for a wife.

but she holds inside her pocket
within a secret locket
the photo of a boy
who always brings her joy
she'll show you if you ask
but no one ever does-

schlitz

the beer that made milwaukee famous
has long been gone and left us
with empty fermentation tanks
and many sober weddings.

Illilouette, trans.

names like pouring rain
Wapama
Chilnualna
Bridalveil
Nevada
Ribbon
Vernal
your book of birds
you stayed up all night reading
wanting to see a cooper's hawk
a sharp-shinned hawk
a golden eagle
but you forgot to look
because Illilouette
was roaring like a lion.

without daring to
i'm daring you to look out over the edge but
holding your waist
i've had a talk with gravity
and we reached an understanding
the water falls
and you stay here with me.

Illilouette
your teeth on your tongue
the name that does not bear translation
not-still-water
and we
are-not-still.

5.10.11 puzzles

the blues make sense to me

a worn out sofa in my grandparents living room
where my nani slept
for as long as i can remember
the kind with a floral pattern
and wooden arms and feet
just barely stained
by cigarette smoke
the fabric thin like an old work shirt
stuck too many times by the elbows of wrestling children

and me, without a clue
that is where i go
when i need to rest my head

the lake, too, at night
with a big moon up
and the doors open
the edge of the woods
where that old truck rusted
and resisted it's useless existence
the hood of a 1966 dodge charger
still warm
stars spilled like pepper
teasing us into believing
that our existence
would be manageable

she turned to me with all of the lost control of a teenager
and i don't remember anything (she remembers the car, and was disappointed when i picked her up a few years later in a 1986 lebaron) except that she tasted like cigarettes, which probably reminded me of my grandparents
and my home

there is a place where it doesn't matter if you run the stop sign at the bottom of the hill
nobody is out there
and there is one light far down the road an old farmhouse where nobody lives
the night sounds:
bullfrogs
crickets
we decide to turn on
the am radio
to catch the ninth
and press our ears to the mono speaker
but you don't kiss me
because you are nervous
with one man on
and one man out
down by two
you're thinking
"don't swing. don't fucking swing
at a slider outside
or something in the dirt"
and i'm thinking
"jesus christ, your lips
are close to mine
and if-"
we hear the crowd go silent
and our brains tell our hearts
that he's swung
and missed
but we hear the ball
hit the bat
and before it's even over the wall
you're on top of me
and that old blue vinyl
is our bed.

so what
if i listen to miles davis
it doesn't mean
that i know anything
that you don't.

the blues make sense to me because they are a language. i didn't get that when i was younger, when somebody first told me, "you gotta speak the language, man." you can't speak it until you understand it. and you don't understand it until it wants you to. you earn it. and i'm not all the way there, and i have plenty of understanding to earn. but i like bending strings and matching up with everybody else in the room, because the blues really do tug at our muscles and nerves and fill our brains with a warm wash of rhythm. it feels really fucking good to just play the blues.

she will hit for power,
but will never sacrifice
a sure single
scoring a runner from second
to fly out at the warning track.

she will write poems about babe ruth
tell stories about the negro leagues
and always watch the infielders
when most of us are watching
the ball headed towards the bat.