LOVE POEM THAT LEADS ME
TO A FLORIDA CANAL
The bandoneon transports me
to your coy lips
posing as a Cnidian orchid
climbing a late summer trellis
toward your throat.
Orchid like a verb
like a lover
from the grave,
Impossible to resist one orchid’s
splendor behind Spanish moss sheltering
a scrub oak’s shoulder blade.
A night-crowned heron
orbits the moon’s penumbra.
Moon tumbled dry
from their linear minds.
A caballero strikes a wooden match
in a Juarez cantina.
With her wooden heel an old woman
caresses the dusty floor
below her barstool
while senoritas, with red and green
illusions ruffling their peasant waists,
flock the dancefloor
like minnows bobbing
below the two-lane 4 Points bridge
for swollen crusts of bread rippling
a Southeastern Florida canal.
EARLY MORNING SONG
White dew oozes from wild rose thorns
shredding a streetlight’s polyester gown.
Dream in its final hour tattered by voices
at the frozen eye of orbit.
Without notice I stub those voices
out one by one like dying cigarettes.
THE WIDOW’S COOKIES
A widow off Tuscaloosa Avenue
that became famous
Her cookies had raisons,
and chocolate chips
that attracted kids
ejecting them from jalousies
like moths fleeing fascist porchlights,
moths that resembled chipped fingernails
applauding Lord Chamberlain
as he took his suite at the Globe.
To this very day, formally emancipated,
these moths devour the widow’s fresh
cookies like ashes rising
above the halogen flames
blurring their wings
A LOVE POEM OF SORTS
Our heads bob like coconuts along the moonlit Gulf.
Lovers arrange coconuts
into a Polynesian marriage ritual
around a watery Saturn.
Our heads bob freely.
On pillows of faith.
know there’s danger—
they’ve absorbed six centuries of German fairytales;
they’ve digested world wars and Wall Street disasters.
But our heads fall
Minor earthquake beneath the Black Sea
creates minor headaches.
coconuts bob along,
to be alive.
Green ink tattoos imagination.
Inside gated communities with residents in zebra camouflage mugged by zombies unable to escape their feral fears causing residents to ram their SUVs through
the wrought-iron gates of gilded communities.
A shadow dancer rises in a Juárez tavern, scrapes
her left heel twice against the existential dust of a
dancefloor then slowly resurrects young men, plus clouds of middle-aged geezers from the sunlit penumbra of a dream, or what some folks identify
simply as the scheme of things.