Part 4 (2/2)

His woman. And if the initial M got ready To graffito-crawl his way out-- A problem for the rest of their years--- She could erase it, not remembering it With any more significance than Having clipped a broken end Of a fingernail. She had that right.

Her man said so, and so said The American const.i.tution.

His s.h.i.+ft in Toastmaster Had for that day ended, And so now he could rest in waters; Focus on the bubbles that rose When he farted; and let the memories Of the entire day be released to rise and fall Like the steam.

He would have to scrub himself Good before going to his woman: She understood money With its charm of a cocaine high-- Although the need for dominance And the breaking of rules Made her love him Who still did not supply her with all of her needs-- But the composite smell of the factory and the drugs That he sold after each s.h.i.+ft Would lessen the good feelings that made That understanding.

Beauty Shop Motif

Taking the boat two hundred miles With her Ozark loving husband Not having the key And why I don't use The hair dye she prescribed-- The one I had bought from Her last time-- I say, ”Yes, Honey”

And watch her lips through the mirror speed on.

My back aches in the chair stiff as a board.

Have I gotten as old as this?

Have I started saying, ”Yes, Honey?”

Conscious of slight pains and discomforts-- Words as silent racing of lips.

Another shampoo is ground harder In the grey hair of my scalp.

The long gray weeds that grow out of it Will be chopped off another two inches more Than what I asked her to do.

In a room of old women, like me, Who let the buzz of dryers And loud beautician speakers Keep their minds active from remembering, My bored and wayward eyes See in the mirror (Now seated in a once empty chair next to mine) A young one: Her fidgeting body willfully captivated; Hair held high and hostage; Curlers stiffly tightened; Bulges diluvial by Cylenderic Bottle Held unG.o.dly above her head And squeezed by gentle but firm hands Of a male beautician-- And I remember that the noxious liquid Dribbles under Cotton Crowns Around one's head As the eyes water from the sting Of this thing called love.

Somehow I want to warn her Although she may not be a stranger To being whitewashed In a man's liquids And the click-of-the heels logic Of women, as if One's whole damaged life Can be bounced from a mirror In and to all women Like an SOS.

Sculpting of Winds

It was as if certain people came in. Those disliked were Disregarded and the rest kind of circled in and out But at the time in and a small period out were a.s.sociated with And considered part of that person's reality by himself The way a cat brushes against certain familiarities Agreeable enough as it goes for its meal, And so I befriended places.

Saltillo in Mexican mountains when the land s.h.i.+vers in shadow And the sun stretches through the air and beyond it With an intent to overpower what is closer to man-- The River-walk and the Alamo and between both where A Philipino in green shorts eats the gra.s.s Where sidewalk and road intersect. There is a city where I Thought I could find myself less lonely, And so I have returned home. Snow embraces Springfield's earth to its death.

Under the sounds of the rolling drips of water in the gutter I am frozen, though fingers tearing apart the wet leaves I pulled off from a tree, wis.h.i.+ng they had been Dry to grind and become the physical appearance of the wind.

Cracked and peeled back from a boot a portion Of the snow is removed but refreezes more heavily On one area of the dead. I stand as an outsider Imagining myself to allow a job section of today's newspaper To become the thoughts that crash along in the mind of the wind.

I need money but cannot find anything worth doing.

To change from a person to a commercial function to eat...this..

This day I shall sleep away As the night. In Springfield, Mo.

The Great G.o.d may also await for his eviction.

Two hundred Indians in Houston bow down to Krishna as the gates Men lock around him are opened and closed.

But in Springfield he probably awaits, His red-sock feet on his sofa As the furnace blows The Soviet flag on the wall before his feet.

His walls may have many flags, And his mind thoughts of glasnost and communism Intermixed.. impractical thoughts He must sacrifice so that He can exist together more easily With the community of the dead, Unalone.

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