ELEVEN ELEVEN ELEVEN—

XI XI XI—
111111—

When I was eleven,
my friends and I
would knot different colors
of embroidery thread
and make friendship or truce
bracelets that would
sometimes comprise

arrows – >>>
Eventually I learned
to reverse
the arrows – (<<<) We would alternate rows making more complex designs like >>X<<
We became obsessed
with Xs
making several in
a row – XXX
when placing 3 in a row,
it was
2 fish
k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

Sometimes
the fundamental slant – /
was enough
and after several
rows
of
these – ///
we began to tell a story
as yarn to scarf / as munitions belt
bullet to bullet
– shells

This repeated pattern is
elevens
over and over
again
Parallels
//
At the eleventh hour
on the eleventh day
of the eleventh month*

This day, originally, was called
Armistice day
referring to the aforementioned
eleventh hour
to remember the day Germany
had agreed to hush
WWI
for a time
to allow peace
to settle after
WWII
to observe peace
on that day was backward
exclusive of those who fought in
WWII
or Korea
or Vietnam
Therefore, the holiday
became a day
to remember
20,000,000

who died throughout
the course of these wars,
calling it
Veteran’s day


it then became a tradition
to observe
2 minutes
of
silence –


to remember
20 million –
dead
but in 1939,
this
“2-minute moment”
was bumped
to the nearest Sunday
to the eleventh
in order to avoid
interference with war
time production,
however,
some still
observe silence
on the 11th day
at the 11th hour.

some do not
have a choice,
but to remain
silent.













*(and eventually we’ll pass
the two thousand and
eleventh year,
approx. 39 days and 1 year
until the end of the world –
i.e. 11/11/11
i.e. 404 days
from
12.20.2012—
According to Mayan prophecy
11-11-11
is the holiday
in which we observe the end
of
WW IV)


Lia Ha//

cremating a demon

if you sit still enough
the rwandan military
maracas and djembes
in hand will shake you
out the conga tree
entrain your thumping
beat an executive
order with six thousand
rebel forces ravishing
women strategic sheets
of boom and clang
embody their arms
inhabiting a melody
in the hollow
emerging from cobalt
that will take us
beyond sun embed us
in a videogame
car crash cocooned
via airbag inflated
by a tin
computer whose veins
knit as blue
and red wires pump
over the atlantic
in your blood wherein
one hand can
hold your mother
and in the other a drum
reigns and does not govern
someone resembles the madhatter
sits on bulging roots at the base of the tree
swigs from a crinkled paper sack intermittently
offers a whistle
wood barrels make boom
beads and rope
a hauling bump shack
stars of david
frankincense with metal
wind and saxophone resonant force of going
. some stop

on the path with basketballs or the curiosity of an archaeologist picking twigs remnants from the trees and carbon and dance steps on resting leaves there’s a reason for boots berets and beards and repetition and interruption

another hybrid

What color is the bike shed? At night it is maroon. In morning we stand foolish from the moon. Mind will wane and wax back purple. Black kindle and candle fire. Fear the stars ignite our ears in. Our knees canning the constant hum in. Everything blap pop. Boom echoes in the night.

thunder claps

sparring mits

chalk erasers slap

Slap dust seabirds scatter whistle whilst. Locusts not that far away gauge in miles where a body lay low low.

Bishop Luther Dingle explains, "sharp corners / and zig zags

of different shades / make illusions / when the contrast moves from bold to fade /

indicates sound" as living proof we know nothing of plants

nuclear

vascular

Plutonium is chlorophyll for allergies or green. Benadryll.

Why wonder about the bike shed's color. It only matters that it has a roof. We converse in predictable cycles perceiving what. We please dismiss all else as. Trivial / forgetting what to do / about a house full of bicycles.

Lolo whistled ivory teeth of coconut meat meant he was shoveling or having coffee with Acidophilus Milk. or a smoke with Dan the 'Nam vet, who sold him cartons. Shuffling made the dingle gamble sound simpatico. Frederick M. Sutton wore flip flops in the garden. Carved canyons in his soles. "Saw clearly beyond cataracts." Filipino expletives. " Ukininam" at the mahjong table. Like the tango he danced on the piano. Lolo called us from the trees, "Peanot bahtter toast!" Fed us with his thick cracked fingers nails like moons. Kamayan style coconut meat. Lola read, Are you my mother? to the audience, a page-turner, age three in his lap and when you fell

he spanked the concrete

with vengeance

for a scraped knee

handfuls of coins convinced you

shhh—you were his favorite

In the morning basement he hacked a toilet cough. Yesterday's ivory phlegm in the bathroom where his dentures slept. Where we split his menthols. Flushed them like

What color is the bike shed?

At night it is maroon / in morning we stand / foolish from the moon
a mind will wane and wax back / purple, no, black / kindle and candle fire
Fear the stars ignite / our ears in our knees / canning the constant
hum in everything / blap pop boom / echoes in the night
thunder claps
sparring mits
chalk erasers slap
slap dust / seabirds scatter whistle / whilst locusts
not that far away / gauge in miles / where a body lay

Bishop Luther Dingle / explains, “sharp corners / and zig zags
of different shades / make illusions / when the contrast moves from bold to fade / indicates sound” as living proof / we know nothing of plants
nuclear
vascular
plutonium is green, no, yellow / chlorophyll is good for allergies / no benadryll

Why wonder about the bike shed’s color / it only matters that it has a roof
we converse in predictable cycles / perceiving what we please / dismiss all else as trivial / forgetting what to do / about a house full of bicycles

The Village Pet Shop and Charcoal Grill for Banksy

stop the dolphin
on the sidewalk
blue five feet
coin slot saddle
and red fishnet
the leopard lost
his coat tail swinging
red satin lining
five thousand golden buttons
bone not included
the chameleon wears Louis Vuitton
and Krylon splashes
the bonobo clutches
the remote watching
the discovery channel
monkeys procreating
pushing buttons—rewind
fish fillets magnified
in the bowl swimming
in circles
vienna sausages wiggle
and hot dogs snuggle
in the aquarium thirsty
for dripping mustard
the nuggets take a dip
sweet and sour
under supervision
from mother hen
sitting on her scramble.
we step out
seventh ave south
hungry

Mash-up for Cobra

TO MOTHER TROUT

You came to us dancing in feathered stockings. We bring you five claws. One soft. One visible fingernail like a nevus in a pine tar sky. A finger sweeps the public frosting. Nature now dry trees and replication and dead birds keep flattening on paintings— Venus roller skates while steering the stroller and the dog walker limps and has twenty-four legs. Exploded heavens. Anatomies of rats in the street—morsels and a mouse remain. Light particles. Nervous gleaners take a sleepwalk around midnight. Take a gander at the air.

I diagram the firmament –nine elephants steady the atmosphere.
I cease
to look behind your prefrontal cortex
to stomp in the hollow
between the rattlesnake
and the peacock.
I hear you.

TO WOLF PANTS

She fan-dances with an implied hum as we coax her by rattling our sun-dried and seed-filled gourds.
Vowels and shakere! Until electric crimson shakes each dangling lobe. Leaves and feathers. Seeds fall into uniform blue emptying. Loveless vessels.

we vow
solo love
we see
love solve loss
else we see
love sow woe
selves we woo
we lose
losses we levee
we owe
we sell
loose vows
so we love
less well
so low
so level
wolves evolve
— Christian Bök



TO LILY

With polished scales
I am she
waking.

Render: a lotus afloat the mise-en-scene. Consider: the gamelan complementing this diegesis. Sink in. Lily ovulates near svadhisthana chakra. Undulating vines—serpentine. Skating unfrozen body. Stalks appalled at her armature uncoiled. Beneath a glass sheet of chlorophyll. Succulent green— no, yellow blossoms. Reflecting the historical trajectory of clouds. Substitute an immmmmmpressionist palette for aphoristic affect. Implement color, comma, conjugate light tissue. Smoothly encased concubine. Cake on calcite. Make icing-face. Purse your lips for pucker power and kiss her to coagulate. Not ravenous for root vegetables just crushed out on the ground whilst the Monkey God leaps over the ocean.
The Sun God erupts through cirrus wisps and our Chieftainess smokes
a cornhusk pipe with tattooed lips rapt in velvet contemplation. Pigeons peck at chicken drumsticks. Eyeing me. I see cave paintings embellish my stomach walls and will please our occipital lobes stretched over a cannibal’s drum today.

Pretend I’m Talking About You

I.

Who are you? rainbow-rusted route
What brought you here?! Your palms were read.
“Write poetry,” the palm reader said,
“And you will find true love.” You doubt.

Fluorescent lights flicker reflect
off water criss-cross currenting
betwixt the subway tracks something
is argyle and you recollect

Marine Bio. was your major
‘til you started trusting psychics.
Follow your bliss and dreams will stick
you oust Jesus as your saviour.

At home you post-it posit post—
the chaise, mirror, banana bread—
examples of parts of speech said
with no relation to their hosts.

“This is life and language,” you say.
You vow to battle speech machines
What happened at age seventeen?
“Got into wind-up toys to play,

spent summers on a fishing boat
to experience ‘harsh living.’”
but you stayed until Thanksgiving.
We are glad you wrote what you wrote

that you have an affinity
with music and the room you grew
up in where covering the view
of lakeside of virginity

a faded curtain yet hangs there
patterned in steam and tug boats
you are not fond of kids but goats
not embarrassed when your grandma
(whom you called, “Nonny-ashen-hair”)

held your hand on trips to market
even now you feel a closeness
to your toes even in adultness.
Wiggle them in their sockets.


II.

You were born on an autumn day—
that held both crisp and soggy things
maple leaves among mushroom rings
apple butter ripe bright decay

hot cereal gone cold and starched
shirts the crunch of sloppy kisses
under awning reminisce this
your lips were cracked sucked and parched

ergo, you know several things
about orange and assonance
ships, harbor, sea and ambience
about mulch and daylight savings

when you first smelled the East River
you released your cogent control
to transmigration of the soul
you believe relive deliver

you see a child yourself you posit
or as a female passing on
away across the street at dawn
you pull receipt from your pocket

to postulate her fears scribbling
plans to find a Brooklyn rooftop
where you pop open your laptop
to settle for the evening

to roll a cone of tobacco
to tuck behind the cigarette-
holder growing out of your head,
denim jacket stained with stucco

rummage through its pockets and find
hardened tissues from wash and dry,
an old matchbook from your last high
and a receipt with some late-night

epiphanies that do not sound
so smart now in your “creative career”
Appear austere with beer not ear,
you laugh stepping down underground

take a train as far as it goes
to watch a woman slip and knit
a story with each hook and stitch
she’s Scandinavian, you pose.


III.

Some of your best friends used to squat
in abandoned houses and hopped
trains and hitchhiked to thumb across
country. You regret you had not.

Some of the kids from your preschool
turned to cocaine for mind expanse.
You’re glad you didn’t take a chance.
Sometimes lonely at the New School

but mostly you’re relieved to skip
stuffy train stations and social
functions—one mathematical
thing your mind could not let you grip.

You haven’t owned a real raincoat
until today and even though
your pocket took a hefty blow,
frugally, you remain afloat.

Laid off from your construction site:
you stood proud in your union-grade
boots saying to your foreman, “I made
pro-dignity and will not fight.”

My feet will smell glorious now,
you think aloud. It makes you sad
to always see busty ironclad
women hovering a cash cow

you name him, Shepherd. He gets
the loot in some story, but not
yours. You are the line and the dot.
Despite your doubts and debts.


IV.

The true love you find in poetry
is what makes a true poet
one we cannot forget
as we trudge through the debris.