Grading the Weekend

While sipping coffee, I read what one student wrote:
“The surviving fifty rare whooping cranes
with their seven-foot wingspread that propels them
in their annual migration from northern Canada
to the Gulf of Mexico fly unerringly
and swiftly overhead as they migrate southward
using a kind of built-in radar in their search
for winter quarters near Aransas Pass.”

Surviving fifty myself, feeling rare and whooping
with my six-foot slouch that propels me nowhere
in my daily migrations from the kitchen to the couch,
I live by the Gulf of Mexico, sleep unerringly and
swiftly, undercover, my dreams migrate southward
using a kind of built-in slinky
in search for vaginal quarters
near my wife’s Aransas Pass.

To be surviving melanoma is rare
with its seven wretched drugs I puke, that propels
me out of the gothic hospital to monthly migrations of chemo;
swimming in the Gulf of Mexico, on my back, I float unerringly
and slowly, overheard, the nurses’ whispers migrate southward
out of memory, which is a kind of built-in shit-breeder
when I am in pain and searching for the way out
near the dark rings of Uranus.

But survival is everything rare as whooping
or her pubic hair spread to propel me
in my daily migrations from her coffer to wherever
it is in the Gulf of Mexico I am off to, I unerringly
admit to caring enough to love her butt
less than I ought too as I migrate southward
using a kind of built-in stupidity
in my blindly succumbing to what is expected of me
clearly perfecting it into a fairly fucked life.

© 2015  Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

Ghazal to Disquietude

i

I can almost hear the waves sweep in, their soft susurrations,
tips of their lips breaking between my curled toes.

Noise is now everywhere I want to be
without it. Cars swoosh past Galveston beach roaring their inept monstrous lungs. I can barely

breathe. Or think. Why do trees and blades of every green thing shudder?
Because we are a hyper-intelligent insidious poison? Cats and dogs cling to us in shock and awe.

Ninety-five percent of a car’s energy goes towards moving simply itself not the passengers.
Or rather that’s 2,500 pounds of wastefulness before the crux of tissue steering the steel.

In Hermann Memorial Park a yellow-blue finch tries to sing and fails
in the roar cars shed in their wake on the I-10 adjoining the beige greenery.

I nod off under a canker tree. A whale whistles out of its water spout, breathing. I roll under
such plushness, floating with barnacles and sticky ambergris. So glued are our dream’s illogical logic.

I am a sticky carbuncle tearing through the earth’s thin breathability. It’s afternoon in Houston.
I shower again. I scrunch into a starched shirt. I rope my throat with a dead worm’s shiny excrement.

ii

My right ear is dead. When I was three
German measles like dappled freckles

grew in me, killing the nerve. My left ear
still good, at thirteen, I hear pretty well

the unprettiness in my parent’s voices as they divorce
and I listen in, in the mosquito bitten dark

roof above the living room window, then roll
on my back to swallow insignificance

in the drifting milky way above. Now
the frogs have started up. A few ducks quack. A splash

might be catfish come to nibble at the stars
tangled in cheap tabloid, suspended on the pond’s scum. My chest

makes a soft squelching sound like tossed gravel granite
settling into the decay layer at the ponds pitch black bottom.

iii

Some sounds have no feet, like running in a dream
with something chasing behind. Once, as a boy

in the Bahamas, in Freeport, in a wooded area
two older boys forced me to be

naked, and dance for them, my penis
slapping around like a snake in the beak

or eye of some predatory bird, I forget
which one it was that kept me, held

squirming, until I ran screaming and
pounding my way past the low palm trees. Power

is holding the thing that does not want you
to rape it into a display for you to play

with, you’d think. If you could think.
Those are pearls that were his eyes

nothing of him that doth fade but suffers.

copyright © 2015 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

Schlimmbesserung

(def: German. An improvement that makes things worse.)

Benched downtown, lipping a latte, my eyes
pause at the vast new construction
glistening across the street. In its shadow

I watch a bird die into the third story
of its reflection. Falling, it intimates to me
the terribly intimate stupidity of the engineer

who flowered the foresight that birds
might mistake themselves for their reflections,
but the engineer, who, nevertheless

got up every morning and shaved money
from the budget of his building,
now grows his dead birds on the pavement.

copyright © 2015 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

French Kiss

Aliens are orbiting earth, dining
on a dimmed diamond table. Oceans
float in windows the size of walls.

On transparent aluminum toothpicks
hover two lips with tongues, sans mouth, sans face,
sans head, sans bodies — wrapped like bacon

around each other, gingerly pushed through
intact lips as appetizer, the whole
human entrée hoisted up behind it,

anatomy impeccably arranged.

copyright © 2015 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved