Twenty-second Entry

I was just in an online magazine called Big Tex[t]. check it out here:http://www2-english.tamu.edu/pubs/bigtext/main.php

and as long as i'm at it, check out my poem in an old issue of Stirring magazine: http://www.sundress.net/stirring/archives/v7/e5/index.html i'm supposed to have something else coming out in there new issue. i think.

here's my poem:

NEW MEXICO AT NIGHT

Who mines the gold that paves the roads in heaven?
This miraculous highway with high billboards proclaiming ‘bend and toil.’
I stood quiet. I made precious love.
It was like crawling my body across a copy machine.
Each of these letters contains one of the results of that trial.
In a moment, a commercial will offer you majestic light.
But first the saint swings into your mouth with his sterling nine-iron.
This guitar is the guitar that coaxes open angel shells.
The person I’m describing laughs with a mirror-plate mustache attached with glue.
Like being high, I saw clouds and thought “don’t think about clouds.”
In the mine, blood leaks off faces and sinks into the intricate natural hollows.
Your dream where your fruit-like feet step across dainty wonders of your own creation.
That book about men.

Smoke exits the body and travels an unknown path.
The story begins with a character shaking his cape awake down the stairs.
IMPORTANT: due to the graphic nature of this program children are already traumatized.
You write your eternal nature on feathers and skin with an altogether original script.
When I began living in California the paint on the churches was faded piano blue.
This is the guitar we use to calculate light speed in our basement.
My brother Terry in the passenger seat, immobile, in agony, about to awake.
A vampire hawk swoops away when we had just finished rigging our net.
Each of these letters contains individual flecks of your body.
The castle of plastic that melts under the heat of an important supernova.
The unholy miasma cut down into the child’s crayon shape.
My body shrouded by the grim patagia of the barbershop awning.
But first this message.

From where does the cosmonaut pull the notes of his song?
Where is the hope of my wicked, fun-loving girl?
Who are you to explain the aura of my own sadnesses to me?
Did you hear the distant typewriter clack and ping?
How can I prevent the stranger from being the thief?
Where is your frightened calendar planning to go?
Who is the expose scumraker among my great-grandchildren?
Am I meant to let water slip from my palms to flatten on my feet?