Rag-time

The Friday night-late shopper
overlooked little imaginings,

the limp, the weight of it,
the coming commute

as an injured part of my heart.

Tom is a deaf door, squealin’
elfin exclamations inside his gear.

A flower Saint Therese gave,
a screech about Elvis,

petaling plasticine wares.

Electric, shook quackery
always froth at spout.

Quotes quoted, birdfood mal-
appropriated.

He, El, did this routine discovery

under cover, of leather,
and shade.

Tenzen often blesses
thanksgiving

turkeys, and in innocence
of seeing a Jew.

Tenzen is weary
of malignant Chinese

tracking, so we’ll all be viewed
to be(animal).

The Last American

Baby, please don’t go…

Franklin, St. Vincent.
I understood his accent, not.

Baby, please don’t go…

Buford would stray.
Buford would fly.
Out from Brooklyn, too.

Baby, please don’t go down to New Orleans..

The octogenarian anonymity,
worked in sales and in Beirut.

We shared a loss, Jennifer Jones.

I caught it on public television,
friday night, it was a wonderful

afternoon–out of the house.

Girl, I love you so…

Mark Jupiter, what in the hell to tell?

Baby, please don’t go.

Chuchie

What an impulse is to utter arithmetic
contracted signs sub-
contracted in kind

Lucked onto you out of line at the bank
just-fine I knew him
to talk like this