SHRINE GIRLS
The fan understands the star in ways an agent,
partner, friends, and family cannot.
No matter what the script says,
the fan knows—the star is speaking to them.
Waiting hours in line just for a glimpse—
fans enjoy proving their love.
Often a fan will pick up a star’s mannerisms or lingo,
feeding the invisible bond between them.
Who will the fan bestow their loyalty—their virtue—upon?
It’s not just a matter of dollars and sense.
To fantasize is part of the fan’s job description.
Their sex magic helps the star burn brighter.
For this reason, a star will sometimes visit a fan in a dream.
Even the biggest ones make these nocturnal appearances;
some take great pleasure in it.
Sushi, cupcakes, apple and kale juice: the fan eats
whatever the star likes.
How many times can you listen to the same song
or watch the same movie? The fan isn’t counting.
“Touched like a virgin for the very first time.”
Besides, it’s never exactly the same.
How moving—after many years,
on the anniversary of a star’s death,
to see fans still gather at the grave.
AVOIDANCE
I’m not watching the movie—
just looking up from my book now and then,
puzzled by the actors whispering urgently
as if prompting each other to remember their lines.
If only they would recite the words on the page
in front of me, I’d be more attentive.
Actually, I see I’m doing more than simply
not watching; I am actively avoiding
the film like an unpleasant topic disguised
in furs and jewels. Something about it offends me.
I suppose I could put on a different movie,
but you were sleeping so peacefully,
I didn’t want to risk waking you from the lullaby
of this pretentious dated melodrama.
Not only am I busy avoiding the movie,
I am using it as an excuse to avoid continuing
to read the book I had started, which to be honest
isn’t so great either. It would seem any activity
one chooses might be motivated by the desire
to get away from something else.
So, I have even physically moved to a different
room. I can still hear the movie, but faintly,
as a kind of spoken music of emotional tones,
and without the visuals, it’s almost enjoyable.
I’ve also put my book down and have begun
writing this poem—obviously the activity
I was avoiding all along, and now can pursue
wholeheartedly to the exclusion of everything else.
MY NAME IS SNOW
She wanted to meet someone in the coffee shop of the motel. I know because I was her, but when passed through the sieve of memory, I became someone looking for her. No one remembered having seen her. The coffee shop had closed years ago and was now a fancy restaurant serving brunch. I drove to different parts of the city. I visited a few monuments and took some photos. At last, I returned to the place where the coffee shop would have been—and there it was. Someone told me I had just missed her. She had been there waiting but had gone home. I went to her house and found her there just as they said. “Who are you?” she asked. “My name is Snow,” I said—and then I melted.
Yellow Ladder
A yellow ladder
leans against
a red brick wall
under a blue sky.
Beautiful.
But it doesn’t lead
to a window,
and it’s not tall enough
so someone could climb
over the wall.
Maybe a construction
worker left it there
temporarily.
But I don’t think
a builder put it there.
It must have been an artist.
Nevertheless,
don’t walk under it.
NINE OF CUPS
I draw the wish card
from the wishing well
of the tarot deck.
I make a retroactive wish
from the future
for everything to happen
exactly as it is.
My wish continues
coming true each day,
each moment
a total surprise.
I am always amazed
by my power.
IN A STRIPED LIGHT
Jerome looks up
from his book.
Like St. Jerome,
he is always
looking up
from his book.
The green lamp
behind him is on.
The green lamp
is always on.
Its lampshade looks
like a hat—
almost a fez—
levitating
above his head.
The late afternoon
sun coming through
the mini blinds
causes his hair,
face, shirt, chair
to unfurl
in blue diagonals.
Like a flag,
even the window’s
shadow flaps
against the wall.
LIONS FOR LEOS
The lazy MGM lion watching old movies high in midsummer sky.
Burt Lahr’s Cowardly Lion, his mane permed and perfumed into curls.
Stone lions guarding libraries and temples of art.
Corpse-and-Christian-eating-lions’ bad breath.
Leo, Leo, Leo—nickname of the Sun—short for Helios, Helios, Helios.
Marlon Brando as a blond SS officer in The Young Lions.
Peter O’Toole looking long in the tooth as The Lion in Winter.
The god-like voice of James Earl Jones in The Lion King.
The song, “Born Free,” that always makes me cry.
The Tokens doo-wop hit version of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
Mick Jagger playing maracas in his Leo glyph t-shirt and flowing blood red scarf.
Literary lions: fiery Shelley, majestic Ashbery, and the pet lions of poets praised in verse.
David Shapiro spending an afternoon with a lion in a villanelle.
Robert Duncan “harkening to the lion-smell of a poem.”
Tom Raworth’s “book they found in the lion’s lair.”
Allen Ginsberg’s lion for real with “implacable yellow eye in red halo of fur.”
Michael McClure’s rebel lions, “Ghhrarrr!”
HIT BY A MANGO
Once after giving a poetry reading, someone threw a mango at me. A bit of time, perhaps a half hour, had elapsed between the two events, so they could be unrelated. But I found it hard not to connect them or look for some hidden meaning. I was walking home, down Broadway, from The Poetry Project in the happy afterglow of having had my work heard and appreciated. Things had gone well. Perhaps I was a bit lost in my own thoughts which were suddenly interrupted by a forceful thwack between my shoulder blades, as if an invisible Zen master had struck me with his stick to wake me from my reverie. Dazed, I stood for a moment not comprehending. Had I been shot? No, there was no blood, and it didn’t hurt that much. Had something fallen on me from above—a flowerpot tossed from a window by an irate lover? The angle was wrong. When I did turn around, there, a few feet behind me, was the red and green mango, slightly larger than a softball, laying on the sidewalk.
All around me, people swarmed, chatting and looking at their phones as if nothing was amiss. None of them seemed the least bit guilty. None were smirking. The act was clearly aggressive, but also sort of whimsical. I remembered a story about a group of Chicago Surrealists throwing a pie at Robert Bly because something or other about him had rubbed them the wrong way. Was the mango an artistic critique—or just a bit of random mischief? I couldn’t tell. My friend, David Trinidad, didn’t know what to make of it either. He had been at the reading and called later that night to say how much he’d enjoyed it. When I told him what had happened on the way home, he was quiet as if trying to come up with an explanation. Finally, he gave up and just said, “I don’t know what to say. It’s crazy! What kind of person throws a mango at somebody?”
FUTURE PERFECT
The robots are at it night and day—
cleaning up our messes, meeting our needs.
The universal programs work for everyone,
leaving us free to pursue our interests
in gossip, word games, cute cat videos,
and making art.
Everything runs on a different currency—
a parallel track.
Money is obsolete.
The goal of history has been met.
Heaven and Hell are abolished.
Now there is only eternity every day.
