USA

jd6s+@andrew.cmu.edu

Pure rain

six a.m., black still, mid-December,
streetlight's thin haze slightly penetrating.
Car lights through the bare woods 
hiss past. Take your own life. Ah,
but where? Three sweaters press against
his loose skin. His roof leaking now, 
in the time of snow. Take it where? His own life 
a bitter rash of random accumulation. He strokes 
the lamp's globe thoughtfully. In silence, 
the green numbers press forward. Time never
used to be silent. He closes his eyes and listens
to the steady dark falling. He rises slowly
and begins to dance, shuffling his slippered
feet, shaking the pills like maracas.

RED CONVERGENCE

I stand on the high tilt of a sidewalk square, 
my daughter on my shoulders, watching 
fire trucks whirl and spin their scream
onto our block. Smoke swarms across the street
toward us. Ash floats like lost snow. My daughter's legs
dangle against my chest as I gauge the time to turn
away. The wooden frame collapses. The hollow cavity 
of old Emma's chest heaves on a lawn chair someone 
has set out for her to wait. My daughter watches rust 
pour out the hydrant before the hose attaches, inflates 
like a balloon snake, arcs its water into flames. 
An EMS crew readies its stretcher. Roots will keep
pushing us up, I tell myself White sheets glow. 
My daughter stares at the sheets. Red trucks 
keep arriving, blocking the street from all angles. 
My shoulders ache with the burden of the body.

OLD DOG

I slapped a bumper sticker on my glove box:
Know When To Say When. A menacing cocktail
for punctuation. I never drank cocktails. 
Just Beer. They'll put that on your gravestone, 
I told myself, starting it up outside the bar (name?). 
I left it on when I sold the car~a Satellite~Plymouth
Satellite~for $100. Old Man (name?) who bought it 
lived over on Audrey (I think), answered my ad 
in the Penny Saver: "Transportation Special." 
I loved crawling under that car and sighing 
oil and antifreeze. If I called it a cure 
for hangovers, you might think me flip~
Old Man saw the bumper sticker~a little problem there?
I nodded. But I fixed it. 

Here, I should talk about what saved me:
I fell asleep in the coffin of my toolbox.
I answered an ad in the Penny Saver. 
I fell in love with a kind teller at the bank.
I bit into a lucky apple.
I kissed the dark spot on my x-ray.

Nothing saved me. I lied to the Old Man
and he paid cash and drove off. 
Little fizzy bubbles
rose from the cocktail.

FOO-FOO ON THE PHONE

To call him a Divine-wannabe
is the easy way out. Divine
ate dog shit in a movie. Foo-
Foo leans on the rickety balcony
of his apartment directly across
from my window where I float my Mouse 
over its pad and click. And double click. 
Foo-Foo might not even be his name
though Professor Tie-Dye next door
says so. She also calls our Greek neighbor
Chemo instead of Kimon. Maybe it's
Poo-Poo. Foo-Foo is talking on his
portable phone, decked out 
for somewhere. The largest falsies
I have ever seen reach out over
the balcony. Me, I'm not answering
my phone today. Somebody mad at me,
and I can't deal. Turning myself into 
a cartoon seems like a viable option.
Foo-Foo's thin black eyeliner arches
up toward the long blonde hair
tied into a tight, severe yank.
Asshole across the street, he's probably saying
into the phone. Or It's all frost in the beat~
I'm not so good at reading transvestite's lips.
I usually turn away. And What's his problem?
What's my problem? 

I like saying Foo-Foo. I myself would like to be 
a Talking Mouse like Topo Gigo. Divine is dead 
and so is the man whose hand and voice 
gave Topo Gigo life on The Ed Sullivan Show. 
Ed is also dead. Foo-Foo and I are alive 
and we don't eat shit. I like saying Topo Gigo. 
Professor Tie-Dye's real name is Debbi. 
She teaches Tie-Dye at various youth centers
around town. She has a dog named Shang
that I always call Chang. Shang#2. Shang#1 got smacked
by a car out front a couple of years before Foo-Foo
showed up. I'm wearing a Fez right now. 
Lost fizz solemn? I put on sunglasses so Foo 
can't see my eyes. I wish my Mouse Pad 
was a trampoline. I'm not answering the phone.
Foo-Foo is. Foo-Foo's ready to go out.
Sun cuts through our windows as it sinks 
into its own dark costume, illuminates
a thin thread. A cobweb? A spider web? 
Whatever it is, it glows.

VITAMIN JONES' LAST HURRAH

I'm falling
		into a long dream
rancid taco meat
		American fissures
last train	no stop	lost ticket

Hi I'm_________
Hi I'm_________

tired already?
I ain't buyin that.

*

I wore a headdress of meat
and a loincloth of black beans

what did you wear?

we danced until our feet
enlarged into capital letters.
I won't do it here.
just use your magic nation.

*

heart attack on stage 
only thirty-five 

thirty-six songs recorded minutes
after his death
brand new inspiration six-pack
limited time only

*

what was my name again?
I wanted to be named Candy

it's all somebody's fault
damn it

been rocking
when I should be rockin'.

*

we're in a car
parked on a dead end
in a neighborhood
called Don't Get Out Of Your Car
we're fogging the windows
with our talk about AIDS

*

It's hard not to go there
even to die

mispronouncing the names
of drugs lined like bullets
on the windowsill

*

it's the coffee
		it's the computer
it's the coffee
		it's the computer

*

the button won't go in the hole.
somethin escaping
maybe just a sigh.

© Copyright, 2000, James Daniels.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.