In the longness of summers
in the pool with the fake green glow,
the sloughed off burnt skin,
and the tinge of chlorine ...

on the surprisingly smooth body
flying down the slide, and the under-
sized buoys bobbing like plastic eggs...
in the fence pressed together like uneasy
fabric, in the fresh face free of makeup,
in the swim cap and lone tree...
I dramatized a struggle
for human definition, a medicine show
of the mind ...

I used to sleep in the hallway
with the light on. Or in my sister's
pink bedroom, next to the drawer
with marijuana and Playgirls, between
the David Bowie poster and the
six inch harlequin doll from JCPenney.

Or I cowered down on the couch
trying to keep out the hollow gong
of the fake antique clock or the
cicada stuck to the outdoor screen
or the crick crick cricking black bug
beneath the carpet choking
out the sound of rusted Chevy Novas
and eight-track converters full blare ...

Mom worked at a rolling skating rink
and put newspapers of JFK and the moon
landing in plastic bags. Michael grew up
and played in M.A.S.H. and Dracula. He
told me there was a hole in my armpit.
When he threw toga parties, I hunched
down, waiting for wedding mints
to coat my tongue and my hole to go
away. I even kept re-opening the slots
in my advent calendar, thinking there
was magic in there ...

Do you see that paralyzed patch
in late summer, when the heat rolled
over us in a suffocating plastic oily
tarp? It could be so thankless, so
hemmed in by bugs, so alien.

Past the cinder blocks, the road was
a swath of loose itchy gravel.
But in spring, flecks of life came back,
a turgid greenness flooded the lot.
The horizon was knotted by dumb, thick
maples, a shadow curlicued around
the whitewashed bench, the steel
fender of the Ford was a dream sequence
of doo-wop and unfiltered cigarettes ...
You linger in these traces, seek shelter.

Water wells. Pipe lines filled with worms
and larvae. Chipped arrowheads from
long gone Indians. A cow skull the color
of baking soda. Gingerbread cookies
in the clay jar made in the shape of
corn. Bikinis hiding thick
pubic hair, fish caught with clumps of
wet Wheaties.

When I was 12, I wrote a poem on the
back of a receipt. Wait, no it was a story
in which I desperately wanted to impress
Judy Garland. I called it "Safehouse." I wanted
to put her in there so badly. For years, I
littered my corkscrew wall with pictures from
Easter Parade, A Star is Born, and Meet Me in
St. Louis. I was going to lure her to the trailer
park, I swear.

Capricorn rises like a winged insult. Like a circus
rigged by a mathematician.

I was born in El Paso on an army base. Dad
cleaned toilets. Taught typing and English
to lieutenants who couldn't read or write.
Threw a man over his head. Was legally blind,
yet snagged a sharpshooter medal.
I was born in Missouri near the cleft of tectonic
plates and the re-birth of country music. Mom
drew her eyebrows on every morning.
Learned to drive when she was 32 yrs old.

I was born on Pennsylvania Ave. next to the
world's largest bait shop. Grandpa gave me nothing
but the smell of whiskey at 10:00 p.m., a convenience
store with a rack of comics, and tools that my uncle
stole.

I rushed towards the flat, crushed, orange twilight,
tongue rising like a balloon on five year old energy,
bits of hail nibbled at the ground. There was lightning
100 feet away. It dug a small crater, scooped
away the clay in a pregnant instant. I had
two gerbils that died that month.

That twilight never left me, like a sweet gum
tree invades the dreams of birds.

I dreamed along to Monkees records, staring into
gold stringy shades that cornered my window.
Watched my neighbor run into a yield sign with
his dirt bike, his face turning to lumpy cheese.
I listened to the moon landing on a scratchy
45 record, made Charlie McCartney, my doll
and cohort, get tied up in my ego. Masturbated
before Boy Scout meetings. I could feel my history
leak over Reader's Digest magazines, feel its way
towards broken VCRs.