Friday, August 30, 2013

Portland Labor Day

By the time i'm old
there will be microchips
implanted in the back of eyes
and children churning
with gamma ray breakfasts

And i will grumble about
how back in my day
calls would sometimes just drop
from thin air
and we would be worried sick
about what had become
of the other side

I'll complain 
about how people these days
are so soft
because they lack uncertainty.






























Even the bosses are sleeping late
in the dusty light of September.

The parking lot’s empty and no one cares.
No one unloads a ladder, steps on the gas

or starts up the big machines in the shop,
sanding and grinding, cutting and binding.

No one lays a flat bead of flux over a metal seam
or lowers the steel forks from a tailgate.

Shadows gather inside the sleeve
of the empty thermos beside the sink,

the bells go still by the channel buoy,
the wind lies down in the west,

the tuna boats rest on their tie-up lines
turning a little, this way and that.
–Joseph Millar













Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Weekly Carousel


we break bottles to scare away the silence
dirtying our asses on the asphalt 
and smudging the walls of our skulls


the world moves faster
by the moment and
we throw ourselves against
stone and salt
inhaling our own blood

sleeping crushed together on couches
using our jackets for warmth

disappearing into our dreams

being young anyway we can






My mother does not trust
women without it.
What are they not hiding?
Renders the dead living

and the living more alive.
Everything I say sets
the clouds off blubbering
like they knew the pretty dead.

True, no mascara, no evidence.
Blue sky, blank face. Blank face,
a faithful liar, false bottom.
Sorrow, a rabbit harbored in the head.

The skin, a silly one-act, concurs.
At the carnival, each child's cheek becomes
a rainbow. God, grant me a brighter myself.
Each breath, a game called Live Forever.

I am small. Don't ask me to reconcile
one shadow with another. I admit—
paint the dead pink, it does not make
them sunrise. Paint the living blue,

it does not make them sky, or sea,
a berry, clapboard house, or dead.
God, leave us our costumes,
don't blow in our noses,

strip us to the underside of skin.
Even the earth claims color
once a year, dressed in red leaves
as the trees play Grieving.
–Dora Malech