It's good to be 
a red ribbon
in America 

to be a red ribbon 
looped around 
a plasticine kimono 

a blue light lingers 
where the house collapsed 

the notebook 
recovered from the carwreck 

is heavy with doodles 
of street signs 

the scavenger birds 
unzip themselves

to reveal 
their feather stuffing

an elegy flickers 
in the neon

& is gone 

The drum skin grows 
taut around 

the amphitheater 

& the crowd claps 
slowly as the mayor
 
holds a pair of novelty scissors 
with both hands 

one mouth of the handle
in one hand

& the other in 
the other hand

almost tipping over 
into the astroturf

almost slipping out 
from behind his fake mustache

& giggling he snips 
the fingers from the ballerinas 

in their plasticine kimonos


Reach inside the calendar 
& remove the history 

of the war 
of the red-tiled 
roofs 

it's good to be a dead bird
in America

simply turn the faucet to hot 
& hot water comes out


It's good to be 
the broken bowl beneath 
the drum 

the streetlight 
with filament of lead

let it happen

trash breath beef heart jump rope & kilter
orange flow boost six liege rouge & wad

a red necklace 
on the broken kitchen table

let it happen

a man wearing a plastic bag 
over his faceless head

repeating OK OK OK
OK OK OK OK OK


The soldiers 
have only candy to eat

another twentieth century emerges
from the knife

near the clear 
blue lake

the villagers set loaded guns 
at the bottom of the cliff

in the background bodies
float by the dockInk has its own laws
that refrain from recalling 

the sounds of the swine
as they beat a linen breath

recall the cell of the algoid film
recall getting out of bed

the cool side of the pillow
the plastic bag that holds the frozen

ballerinas fingers 
over & over the clock 
falls from the kitchen wall

the pedestrians blindfolded
with white linen swatches

twist their ankles 
on the curbhurry up
recall

over 
& over

OK OK
OK OK

she was thirty-one
when the cold bed killed her


For every word that the walls produce
a white mask knots
around the young mother's face

she holds the telephone to her ear
but her mouth is locked 

blood on the street or water
in a broken styrofoam cup

in the alley
in the quiet
of a white cloth

in the stutter
of a broken car window

in the moan
a lock of hair makes
when it falls into the sink

only sleeping
soaks the white cloth
into the chalk the child uses
to draw circles

in the asphalt
around her baby teeth
Grain smoke
recalls the coming to voice

the coming forth of words 
from the newly cut mouth
words encircle the image of the moon

the moon in the alley water
is the same moon

the monks drank before they skinned
the wet rabbits

the same moon reflected
in the drool-slick palms
of the hungry ghosts

the hungry ghosts sharpen scrap metal
into cleavers

the wrath of all disposable things
the resentment trash accumulates

as the night gives 
them breath
Oil covers the walls 
of the burning gallery

pregnant women open their mouths
to find them full of light

motors crackle 
inside blue eggs

as the temples quiver 
to the sounds of whips snapping

scavenger birds carry deflated balloons
to the raccoon nests

white linen mosses 
a first breath

a veil
a single sheet of paper 
imprinted with one 

erased wordMao Tse Tung's bedroom
was painted completely white

& he kept a folded up note in his pocket
that he opened once a day

& read slowly 
then refolded 
& returned to his pocket

wiping a bit of white dust
from his fingertips.