Pomegranate

Staring at a headstone, first you see only stone.
Then a single ant-- then another behind it--
and all of a sudden, or over a few quick seconds, you realize
that there have been ants there all along, dozens of them,
and your field of vision splits like a pomegranate
onto a hive of tiny buds, each packed with sweetness
you are too big to find on your own.

Saturday in January Sharp Minor

Watching the images

of 3-years-post-earthquake Haiti,

it’s obvious to me that Haiti

is definitely not America.

Later in the broadcast,

a newscaster tells me

that 3 million children die each year

from malnutrition.

And it’s obvious to me

that he’s not talking about America.

I’m trying to explain how to get my brain working.

Like a lawn mower pull cord you just gotta rip the words right outta you,

and fast.

Faster.

Prime it once more.

You sure there’s gas in there?

Didn’t the images of starving homeless families do anything for you?

Didn’t that put some fire in your rotor belly?

But you’re just a lawn mower.

Just a bartender.

Just a bourgeois suburbanite sipping his beer in his camp chair,

listening to music on his hundred-dollar headphones.

You’re just letting the sun go down

without having stepped outside once in the sunlight today.

And you can’t decide

if this is a good way to live

a day or not.

And how responsible you want to be

for the happiness of others.

Painting the Dartboard for Some Renaissance Fest

My boss is named Archie.
He is a short man,
mid fifties, perhaps,
always wears sunglasses.
I imagine him as a jester
with a vile of poison
in the pocket of his red,
Ed Hardy hoodie.

He tells me I have 16 hours
to finish the queen. I tell him
I think that’s doable.

She is a seven foot-tall head
with jewels in her Raw Sienna hair
and currently no pupils.
Tomorrow, I will make her blush.

I know that despite
how carefully I paint the folds
of her frilly collar,
what royalty I give to the pout of her
Titanium White/Cadmium Red Medium blend lips,
I cannot save her.

I wonder who sews the clothes
of people on death row.
Do they remind themselves
not to bother
over a dropped stitch?