"Sure I Worry," "kitchen sink," "on a tuesday in september," and "A Big Jail for Lone Nuts,"

Sure, I Worry

I like sliding into love, maintaining position, being there.
But sure, I worry.
I'm concerned about what could happen to gravity,
the who's who of public waste disposal,
the rise and fall of the Big Gulp.
The glyphosate in tampons bothers me,
the debilitating prose of my poems,
care as it fades, how
to conclude.

kitchen sink

          (for Jim)

i don't know why
i don't write you
they say it all
happens for a reason and who in their right mind
ever knows this thing
enough
for it to do a damn bit of difference
doesn't take long
to be getting on
and then

now this
overflow of the strainer
usually doesn't happen
right at the end
our planned
dinner party preparation
makes for a mess   here and there
but it's ok.

i find myself pausing
at the edge of the drive

nodding
to people i don't know
for a minute or two
and i spit to myself

we're getting on
we're always getting on

i write a kitchen light
for you    but it's harsh
so i make it go out. the next
one just mood     too low.
i don't like myself when i write,
when i don't write.
there must be a reason for this.

on a tuesday in september

they're levitating water now,
and cannonballs, and your latest poem
can be preserved forever as part
of the molecular structure of
its own filing cabinet.

a fine dust still left,
the bones and last moments mingled as they
settled upon engineless cars, fires unconsuming,
newly-created amalgams streaming in sunlight
down to the survivors in stairway B, into the
empty crater of building 6,
a cloud settling still upon us.

it is not yet complete:
some of us are still here, webbed with
confused winds, the dirt below us
cold, moving in new directions.
we notice all fall down quicker than before,
yet still in slow motion, a residual trailing
made from a mixture of victims and the news
picking up icy steam against our backward
sense of gravity.

A Big Jail For Lone Nuts

They're building a big jail for lone nuts, because more are expected. Osama's dialysis printout - found at the scene - turned out to be a forgery, plus it had been shredded so well by what appears to be a boxcutter or perhaps an automatic weapon that the official investigation decided it was something else. At that point this was true, as it had merged with what appeared to be a gas mask and a porta-potty.

Inmates had no alternative but to believe the apartment to be festooned with explosives, and no ambulances were turned away. That woman running around in the background, after the blast? Miraculously wounded now, a hero on her stretcher, as untouched flags continue to flap their flap. That ambulance just sat there, rubble-encrusted, and they made quick work of the tiny pile of of steel and aluminum, and hosed down dust, and shipped it to China, so they say. The technology of dashcams, the mass evacuation. Sorry. Cameras silently caught the lunch break they enjoyed, waiting for the event to end, for night, when the bodies would be moved. Do the orders still stand? Does the temple of Baal? Will it?

I had a nice piece of fish the other day. Two-headed, more for your money. I see there's a new and improved spray of some sort. On an internet commercial I almost learned what it was for. After I sat through another minute of its side-effects (death on the list -- what did you expect, it went on for over a minute), two forms dressed in black, faces hidden, slammed into our front door, dropped it down while they yelled like madmen, rifles in the air.  Are you with us or against us, they growled  at me and my sweetie (once Hillary's lover). And Anderson Cooper's nose grew long and green, and Vanna flipped letters. Not sure, I said, not sure. I have no idea who you are.