~entirely for irina~

in search of perfect cleanliness,
the flowering scented sense,
aura of perfect cleanliness
we write, return, close the book, and
then question our imperfections not fully
soluble, so we lift life's newly soiled loads,
and with detergent pen, erase the old stains,
for the new day's chores, begin and end,
again and again, then again,
this cycling, circling is never fully reversed
our ***** laundry, in poetry, cleansing,
but we bitter bite our own mocking laughs,
for after this poem,
comes ten thousand more
and time, with words more precious
than newly mined gold,
from the land where east meets west,
demands without surcease,
endless re and repolishing,

so by sunlight's glittering
dawn's arrival, we are momentarily healed.
but never ever more fully revealed,
and once more, in next's poem
dawn,
our own re~
cycling never ceases

In my luxury there is shame,

using my thin, Western excuses

to hide from my art.

When I read your story

I heard a trumpet of glory

and a stern rebuke

from a creativity so compelled

that, denied the tools of your craft,

you carved your daily poem in soap

and committed it to memory

before washing your words away.


When the days pass me

with the pen's call unheeded

and my reluctance comes

from seeing the word as a foe

then I'll remember you, Irina,

and how the word set you free

from the darkest confinement.

last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-****** and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...

there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia     g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.