Poems

Thousand Islands

the 401’s for robo-sharks: constant exits into flat cornfields with occasional Tim Horton’s hidden in an eddy. A stagnant stream with a median strip, max 100 km/h, plus provincial police to prove it. Halfway from Montreal to Toronto, from Canadien to Maple Leaf, almost abdicating into Kingston and that’s where it is: the flyway. The
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The Last Linzertorte (for Susanne Naegele)

by the time we had bitten (into) it, you were already gone: as dusty as pastry flour now, that so often stuck to your skirt. A swan song crust, flown back from Valhalla, stolen from the dead. Susanne from Silesia, soldiers trample through the filling, leaving boot marks in your jam. Slicing some rye against
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The Goddess of the Fire (this time)

She begins with the Business Section, crumpling The heads of corporations into their flammable Numbers. She makes a pile of these. Then she becomes an architect of kindling, stacking the Lincoln Logs into a model of Richmond that will soon suffer Sherman’s March. Mill ends she weaves in, and double- split oak, setting the place
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Cousin Jonathan Squints Southward

When September Sun crosses the crosswalk at State & Center and through my south-faced screen -I know it must be the 21st. Dodging between turning maples, glancing off the deli’s parking lot hugging the skirt of the therapist’s mansard roof. She’s way wide of Edward’s brownstone church, his Great Awakening bells un-tolled his clock ticking
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Combine-nation

kind-of-backward, running from my baking shift down to the farmer’s in Easthampton. Harvesting the winter wheat today, down by the Manhan River. Bottom- land -so bottom spots got flooded out this Spring. combines combine a reaper and a thresher. This one’s as old as I am -cost $2000, with shipping- from somewhere in Upstate New
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St Dominic’s Preview

the Pope’s loss is my gain, it seems: this old dough mixer pulled out of a boarded-up church (St-Dominic’s) up on State Street in Portland. I imagine a 40-year apprenticeship making sacramental wafers and dinner buns for bingo night socials. Definitely a pagan machine, trade name Vulcan, bidding its time ‘til the old congregation dies
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Re-Building in the Battery

a year and a half since the buildings fell and here we are re-building the whole thing (in 10 minutes or less) inside a jazz club in Boston. Not a model, but the real thing: Gaudi’s original structure, planned before the twin towers and formed here, in sound… Charles, who was playing the Blue Note
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Song of Spanning (Coolidge)

Stuck again on Calvin’s ever- widening bridge to nowhere the motor idling, the radio moaning, the bumper in front of me extolling car-less ideals that fade and jade in a jam like this. Just downstream, Cole’s Ox and bow is pierced and paved by Interstate 91. The hum of determined business surrounds me. Looking north
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The Game in the Rain on the Moon

William is the First Bass Man, Hamid holds down the battery with those solid sticks. The trumpet covers the infield, the sax plays plays out -way out. Eri Yamamoto plays home plate like a prepared piano. And Miss Conquest sings the new National Anthem from the mound, pitching a stitched hit that strikes through this
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Poems and Hungry Ghost Bread

While some folks claim that the bakery’s just an elaborate front for a vanity press, it IS true that one of our (unofficial) mottos is: “$6 a poem and you get a loaf, free”. Most regular customers have noticed that on the backside of our bread schedules are poems, because as Roque Dalton wrote, “Poetry,
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