Untitled Southwestern
It is twilight near the monolith
sometime in August,
sadness solemn and regimental
swaying a little
in clumsy boots
and the mysterious epicycles
in the sand
red, yellow, blue
tents
the color of
ice
the color of water
the faded blonde color
of steam.
The sand itself lies
streaked with rivers
of deep night
as a woman’s face
half turned
from love
and circles glow
softly from within
as though speech were a
simple bonfire
against chattering teeth
and slurring wind.
This is the last stop
for the circus
for Eyes-Go-Sideways
Beautiful Astarte
and El Magnifico.
Maybe there’s a place
in a footloose galaxy
for a few sad elephants
and bowlegged clowns
but for now they will
entertain the ants
crawling through a deer’s
eye sockets
where a dead volcano
belches a thin plume
of masked cowboys
every afternoon.
Coyotes
Serene as monks
jogging at dawn
they never break stride,
not even when the male
dog growls softly
and retreats between
my legs.
moving off into darkness
maybe ten feet away
they inhabit
another
planet
of dissolving angles
and boneless
slither
claybank yellow
feathered with
indigo bunting
and cool as a
zinc washtub.
They don’t know
why this desert
wears a black raincoat
painted with dividing stripes
but oh god
do they mean it
when they smile
with their long teeth
and carrion breath
thrusting themselves
like rigid cocks
into the zoning wars
of espresso bars
and mud cities
born of feverish gold.
A Grounded Starling
phut-kerplunk
phut-phut-phut
He wobbles and
zigzags like a
drunken sailor
across tundras of
thirsty weeds and rye.
His wings
aren’t broken
yet he doesn’t
try to test their
lift and glide
or march blindly
as a soldier
into enemy fire.
Maybe he just
tumbled from the mist
like the first
dinosaur
with feathers
returning to solid
ground’s familiar
instructions:
put one
leg forward,
then the other
ignore the
siren call
of heavens
compressed
into a wing’s
sullen pivot.
This is the only
heaven
that matters.
Dragsters On Central/The Pandemic
I can hear them
every night
between midnight
and sunrise
moaning like distant
cattle cars
in tunnels of coffee
and doughnuts.
The streets outside
wait for the next move
in an interrupted
game of Risk
wooden armies
shoved aside
by a red-faced child
the male equation
of speed and power
crescendoing
growl by growl
into fusillades
of tomcat squeals
while cornered lions
of sleeplessness
pace fire rings
around quicksand
lakes of desire.
Patience
You don’t have to be smart
in order to be wise.
Sometimes it’s better
just to ignore
the devils of haste
and efficiency
sometimes it’s better
to imitate patient leaves
turning crisp and red
without a wink
or a nudge.
Don’t ask me
how I can spot
a face in a mountain
or a candelabra
in a fleecy white cloud
because I will answer you
thwack! between the
shoulder blades
with another missing chapter
from an unfinished
book
sharp as the knives
of an icy stream
in February.
Biography: DOUG MAY has been treated for ADD, behavioral issues and depression. As a child he received a great deal of academic tutoring geared to his abilities (including piano lessons), and eventually earned a GED (General Education Diploma) and went to college. He was worked many entry level and unskilled jobs- everything from proofreading children’s books and data bases to stocking shelves, driving a delivery truck, moving furniture, selling music, emptying bedpans and performing at NCO clubs in a rock and roll cover band. He is currently retired and working on a memoir about his experiences as a differently abled American. May’s first full-length collection of poetry Songs From The Back Row (2020) was recently published by Uncollected Press.
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