Weekends

Out for a walk, my welfare seems tilted.
I don’t like the new puppy or the women
in the racetrack bar.

Slugging melting evening traffic.
On foot I am winged against it,
waiting for the pinch of an angel.

Three smooth stones
carried on the water to me:
The ideal Saturday night.

The Lake

This summer I’m building a lake.
Waking I burn fat orange candles
to stubs and look over blueprints.

When I die, I plan to burn and scatter
from every shore. Burn and scatter.
Sailboats will float on me, and in winter

I will turn to ice. I may be up to 500
feet deep at some parts.
I think I will haunt my lake nicely.

Riddance

This town’s days became mud.
One week a voice spoke out wool phrases,
trudging in the watershed marshes.

They got lost against the bluffs
and spooled out into lesser secrets
by branches, squirrels, and tramps.

The days combed through us.
There was bathing and TV.
Now there is only goons.

Everything Will Be Fine

Listening to talk shows in my neighbor’s garage
one of us rises to crush a can as
light rolls under the door like dice and

Today all I have to do is un-slash my bike tires
and grease the chain, call Mom Re:
A note fastened to the mirror

How some muscled angels will
swoop down and lower me gently
onto the drainboard.

Night Noises

Weird, minnow sentences.
White bellied-promises capsizing
In the harbor. Beef dinner special,
Restaurant window. I look out
Over the bay and see your
Ship come in, towing six
Dead whales. I fold my heart
Up, neatly in my napkin.
The waitress is pretty but
She doesn’t understand: one wrong
Thread and goodbye sweater.
Sometimes, I don’t.

I could have been two stones
Shy of Nirvana. Instead I
Hooked back when I heard the gang,
The TV had fallen into
A panoramic stupor, and I could
Give you another chance like a
Coin.

There are few evils in sleep and
Shadows. Both end when you
Do, or wake up. Windows
Are different. What do they do
[That’s my friend Coughing.
Couhging is my friend.]
When we’re away?

A big wreath of stars,
Someone’s archery stuff.
In my heart there are no spoons.
That’s why I leapt into the
Train for you. Why I blubbered
Out Everyone Must Leave
At the snowy height of the
Birthday party. People get so
Puffed up they can’t take care
Of each other all at once. That’s
Why telephones came, to stretch out
Time and do acrobatics in
The weird miles between us.

It’s been a touchy span.
I’ve been thinking: To live my
Life in valleys of avoided
Eyesight. I went in the alley
And saw it happen. Because
The wicked puppy of the universe
Dragged it over to me. With the
Sound of bouncing dice. And
That’s all and the alley fits me
Like a peg.

I followed a gentleman on a
Surfboard. In the Academy
Of Rolling Dice, the hallways ring
With hymns of certainty.
Stairways rise and fall, to climb
Them is breathing. Here
I must appear quite the lackluster
Fellow. Because you get the
Targets you deserve but many
Times miss. Does this uniform
Make me look less of a boy,
Or lips swell? Like Nyquil does
For those allergic to sleep.

One too many voyages.
Now me so _____. Growing
Certain, growing certain. Learning
Furious hibernation, and not to
Look back when I sense
My name in the coils of your
Timbre. Three stones carried on
The water to me: The ideal
Saturday night.

The heart is a swinging thing.
You learn this by pulling, pulling
Until the propeller snaps off and
Skips away. Worried about making
Little cuts in your group of friends.
One day it becomes all too much
And bursts, your severed head falls
Through the bottom of a wet
Grocery sack. With a sound like
Bad kissers, reverse suction,
Bile floods the avenue. Land
Lady locked in the surf even
Agrees you should be burnt.
It’ll make the papers, and then
They’ll make a new one.
So they all can see what you
Really are: The dark tunnel
Surrounding a little, bright light.

The Killing

Tyson