Are There Any Questions?

I was hungry for god & I swallowed

Her earring. Sweat got on everything.

The couple still french-kisses long in the driveway of the church.

The windows, lit up at night: black sky, tangerine hills.

Darkness has its good points.

Haughty, god delivers me another drink

On a silver tray with a little cold sandwich,

He knows I won’t eat.

The lovers fell. The linen of their parachutes

Entangled in Williamstown. error 404 Not Found.

Justice for Fat Daddy murdered  by

Narcotics strike force. 215-313-9506.

They are falling still. In a world of 10,000 objects.

Blame wind. The ground fluttered. Blame dance.

Small souls lift into soft trees.

Opaque, watermelon dusk.

I kiss you like a paycheck.

Man whispers something (opium?)

To woman on bench.

Koran pattern on his tie.

So, now, a bird calls, in the realm,

Though some would say I do not hear it.

Scrubbing pans, polishing silver. Brushing shoes.

Between the leaves. Purifying the forest.

Crow snicker, car approaching & going away.

errata

Nothing that had ever made so much sense.

Errors that failed to be caught in proof.

Something seemed obedient, about right here.

Nestled its head against this dumb boy’s

Heart.

I know because I went & sat under the

American sky & didn’t talk for a while.

Reading Circle Jerk

My neighbor’s weed whacker goes gold. I like the irony, melting, in late afternoon light.

I’m knocking back shots of tequila & tonic. He’s snapping off chicken heads with an ax,

Vacuuming leaves with his other hand. Should I pay attention? Butterflies & moths lift

          into the trees.

I’m reading Proust. I’m leafing through Marquez’ stuff. Do I believe it?

I’m up to page 139 of a Chandler novel. You know, where the equivalent of the blonde     

          goddess

Who is trouble but can’t spell it (& I trust about as far as I can throw my car), distractedly

          enters,

Creaking like plastic upholstery. Simultaneously, my son decides is a good time to 

         quietly

Blow up a brown paper bag & explode it. Laugh, go ahead, he’s gunning for you too.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

How Ulysses ends, I can’t say. No, I can’t say. No I can’t. Isabella, my calico,

Settles in the tenderness of low lamp & my lap. Morning is a movie in her memory,

With its fragrance of wharves & woodsmoke. Are those two nude women , coiled

Across the alley, trying to tell me something? One, reading a book whose title I can’t make out,

A gelatin nude photograph on the jacket. The other, white knuckling a copy of Mein Kampf,

Absentmindedly tracing a pink aureole with her free hand. I love the odor of pages, new &

           yellowed, equally.

Copyright © Leonard Gontarek, 2008