Antonyms for “Red Light”
I’ve been to the lowlands
and gotten high on paint fumes.
I’ve been part of a crew
that was part of the solution
and a part of one
that was part of the problem.
A red light appears.
It’s so beautiful that it stops
traffic in the streets.
It reminds me that I’ve seen ice
in a glass change colors
while my children studied the imprints
that their feet made
in wet sand.
I’ve been the hammer and the nail
and the owner of a hardware store,
straightening the sample
swatches of paint.
Chronic Town #2
Unexpected hands.
I make excuses.
I listen to jazz.
And try to ignite a flag.
The children make X-Men.
From paper and yearn.
For longer yarn.
Though they have no formal training.
In yearning.
Or making.
Excuses.
I am losing my grip.
from The Collected Poems of Jet Screamer
XVII.
Go deeper into the eep.
Feel the hinges of your jaw
pull back as if performing
the Buddha’s secret smile.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Ready lips
for the divine’s invisible,
perfectly curved ass.
The puh is not a stutter
but a kiss.
You still can’t discern
the song’s secret meaning?
Imagine the vastness of space.
Turn your mouth into a boomerang.
XLI.
A silver rocket divides the reddened sky.
XCVI.
She wrote that I was stupid
in the manner of a birthday cake.
Sexual like a congenital stutter.
As American as a half-eaten sandwich.
A reminder that “culture,
like all modern phenomena,
turns mean,
eats its young,
then canonizes
any youth who manage an escape.”
I was an annoying buzz
near the decorative arts.
The death of content.
Irony for dummies.
CIV.
They still ask about Judy
as if I ever understood
that white-haired tigress.
They still ask to see the scars.
Even at my age, they still want to see
me back on stage
staring down the darkness
beyond the spotlight,
each sequin like a photonegative
of bone marrow.
I seriously don’t remember
which of the Way-Outs
introduced me to the needle,
which of the four winds ripped
through my topcoat
to nest between my fingers.
I signal the bartender
to make it a double.
Such is my distrust of the voice
that made me famous.
I’ll never be able to tell
my biographers
all I’ve lost
through the goalposts
of that ancient gesture
for victory.
CLVIII.
A young couple dances
to “Eep Opp Ork.”
It’s as miraculous
that they found this old tune
on the jukebox
as it is that they found
true love, however fleeting.
Ice whiskey whiskey,
says the bartender.
Come fly with me.
Come watch the trumpeter swan.
Leave Earth and constellate,
says the young man dancing.
Whiskey whiskey whiskey,
says the young woman
in his arms.
On another planet
a purple monk beats a drum
to keep the angel of death
distracted.