The Pink Snail

  A Poem in Residence Everyone else gets to be a disruptor, Why not me?  Let me waddle into the middle of midtown And flash brightly in these dark domains Between the towers and the crowds I can erupt, carrying colors and patterns of flora and fauna Amidst huddles of black and blue My campaign will not be restrained, The shadows of steakhouses will have to accept me, Shorts and all, as I fiddle with silverware And in the museums, I will keep it up, Strolling through the silent galleries like a flattened flame, Until I find a work I can weep in front of Still Saving Changes Rather long time waiting to say challenge accepted would prefer a declaration but telling can be showing seizing rumors of a sunrise, or a straggling sunset claim get that new route unfurled, the end goal wide-released a finish line in theory, even  if it is not yet in its focus Metaphysical Engine Artifact Where's my gravely sonorous narrator? The voice I've been using in my head is useless, the presen...

  The Man Who Served I drove slowly by the mangled car, the bright lights, the cops, the rescue truck. The victim was in fatigues. Army reserve, I heard later. The guy had done a stint in the middle east. And I thought: so this is what it means to serve. Driving on,  the white line ahead of me wasn't a boundary anymore, just a thread of narrative spooling between Baghdad and Biloxi. I could be anywhere.  Kandahar.  Fallujah. Or just outside Amarillo, the spot where the pickup swerved. Maybe the guy was blitzed on mescaline. Maybe he was just tired of the war he didn't know he was fighting. He zigged.  He zagged. The war came home in tire tracks. Turns out he was dodging an armadillo. A damn fool armadillo.  And I thought: he doesn't even know what country he's in, let alone what side he's on. Poem for the Daughter Who Stays Out All Night It's Sunday. Dawn. Silent. Too silent. An anxious night is now a day of dread. A cruiser drifts past-- slow enough to be ...

Border Crossing From a dilated, mucous pit you came--          three-bodied, lizard-like formation. Below us:  the infectious Body of Earth.  Above us:          the seal-headed Homunculus grows a spherical retort, his convulsive fingers--          flaming columns, with claws at their ends, pointing towards the gaping wound of a grave. We have crossed the border.  Will the heart follow us, and our flesh-and-blood double, scythe in hand? Why would we seek silt at the bottom of the Honey Lake? The knight has long since disappeared from the armor, and the aforementioned          three-bodied               lizard-like figure          raises the double-edged sword . . .  Laszio Araanyi (Frater Azmon) poet, visual poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary, Earlier books:  (szellem valaszok, A Nap es Holderok egyen...

  The Witnesses to Bigfoot It has been said that only the depressed, the anxious, the disassociates, are allowed to see the Bigfoot.  Only those we cannot trust to discern the truth can spy its eight-foot frame lumber amid the timber. The skeletons we found,  the experts term deer. The bipeds, bears foraging for berries. What cries we hear are cries, we're told, the woods ceaselessly surrender. Until who can we believe? Those who wandered from us, humming within the wood line, or rocking at midnight in the palmettos, stroking armadillos, each one to a shine. Native Names for a Simian Cryptid For "Bigfoot," the Natives had 1,000 names but only one opinion: leave it alone. Leave its mystery in fog. Leave the infrequent couplings unspied, and call the howling bobcats. Let the birthing spillage crust in meadow grass, nourish flies for miles. Let the stillborn burst its maggot stitching unwatched. Let no one see  the bones dissolve to loam, the skull, thin as an egg. Its ...