Pabst Blue Ribbon

A boy sits on a low wall and broods.
You think by the way the legs drop
over the side, heels scuff
the rock—granite someone quarried,
cutting their hands—it's serious.

You're about to ask, what's wrong? 
You can. You helped that anorexic girl 
conjugate 'esse' for six weeks.
Thirteen, so little to be thinking about that.

They make them go to school? Yes,
even the cancer ones. They all go.
And besides being read to, what they like 
best is when a parent or classmate comes
to open the blinds and talk.

                      Then your friends 
cross the street from the A&P, stumbling,
heavy green duffel slung between them. No, 
it's not serious; probably he just lost something,

it will come back. You think of that girl,
you lose track,     get real, real drunk.

OJT

I want to do something mind-numbing, like build a universe. 
I want to work in that factory—

In the breakroom, there's a big-ass microwave. 
A Kenmore. All the guys hurry to be first
but not me, I brown bag.
I hover over lunch all afternoon in this dream. 
I lick the paper,
spend a good hour just thinking what to call you.

Also I wear thin, dirty shirts.
Me and Jake, we fuck the receptionist silly 
and brag about our lack of nightmares.
It rains to cool things off around five 
so we head home, drink beer, get ready for supper.

My God, it's August, I'm telling you things
like I had this brilliant resume: 
credentials, goals. I only ran interference.
Last night someone bludgeoned my daughter 
and I slept; I hit him with a shovel; I knocked his brains out
and cried wondering if that, too, was supposed to be good.

Moving In

I had lunch the other day with an old friend—myself. He was just entering and I
just leaving the men's room of a bar 

(in X. Many, many X) He handed me soap on the way,
murmuring, "the usual?" (I gave a slight nod Yes and continued to wash)

Did I say lunch? No, drinks. The junket was planned. Our lovers saw us off
with napkins, a kiss—strange duet of wonder and fear that accompanies our goings
(and now, sometimes anger, sometimes fierce anger will set the latch). 

But the door showed no concern, no concern at all.
On its outer facing

                            the frame said LANGUAGE.

Did I say drinks? I mean a fountain. A cooler. Standing in line—my friend and I
nearly tripping over his shoelaces. What a jerk, we almost called to each other—
and would have—but one of us grew thirsty (it was hot, very hot)

                                       the eager new tenants bumped into each other in a small room 
losing their tongues

Once, in Samaria

With your teeth, now, not so light.
Rake it like a back—a lover's back 
you crawl over and claw— 
and when I gasp, realize
I'm pulling your hair. Be gentle 
with the head. It's tender
and like an ear, reddens
if you hurt the opening.
Find a place for your tongue. 
Uncurl it—around and under 
a spot that feels good. Now, 
lift your eyes, look at me 
like you're at a well, I'm it, 
you're dying of thirst. 
Be generous with your throat. 
Tell me it's something deep 
coming loose—a bucket, 
ice cracking dark and far off.

By My Office

a scrubby patch of wetland,
two or three 
                             acres left 
                             vacant for drainage.

Flanked by an asphalt L, 
the company lawn,
                             trees take heart—grass
                             stains the undergrowth 
but for a few weeks each spring; 
vines green and choke it.

All summer mud slicks sedge;
shallow pools form
                             from clouds, sprinklers
                             spilling their excess.

It is wetter than you can imagine.
If I had your armpit, I would lick it.