The Tomato-coloured Couch 4:00pm
I stand in a shaft of sun
drinking from My Silver-frosted
Chalice of Life
I stop to look
at just what I am
consuming
I see The Earth
The Potency of Life
quivering
in My Well-oiled
Grip
The Hawk Deck 12:22pm
When I Drink Water
From My Chalice Of Life
I See The Bottom
Of My Glass
As A Fertilized Egg
Cradled
By My Little Finger
The Hawk Deck 11:42pm
I Am White Jesus
sitting in a sun hat
sounding out individual waves
from the overview of surf
savouring the tranquillity
of My Eternal Youth
The Hawk Deck 10:40am
I Am A Model
Human Being
I Choose My Clothes Wisely
paying careful attention
to Colours
to The Significance of Jewellery
–
I go prepared
With Time On My Hands
into any Social
or Political
Situation
–
I Stand For Righteousness
Fair Treatment
& Reverence
for
Human Life
–
I Am A Model
of
My Existence
The Hawk West Desk Window 10:11pm
What Do I See
When I Close My Eyes?
I See The Mark
Of Infinity
Within The Swirling Masses
Of Colour, Sprayed Out
Overlapping
Lodged Forever
Behind My View
& In The Forefront
The Hawk Kitchen 8:00pm
I Am The White Jesus
Arms Held In
Across My Chest
In A White Sweatshirt
White Shorts
White Underwear
–
My Old Psychiatrist
Warned Me About
Dressing Like Christ
— I Can If I Want —
Especially In My Own
Kitchen
With A View
To The Neighbours’
With Their White
Car From The 50’s
In Their Back Yard
The Hawk Deck 4:48pm
I’ve Been Showered Upon
Hosed Down
Drunk My Own Pee
& Where Has It Gotten Me?
–
I’ve Selected Eleven Poems
Of Mine
For A Cousin In Vermont
Yet Emily Dickinson
Sits Beside Me
Mostly Unread
–
Hunter Filed All My Poems
Today, Lining Them Up
With No Spaces Between
Making 594 Pages
–
What Will Ultimately Happen?
The Hawk Kitchen 9:30pm
I see A Universe
lurking in the bottom
of My Dirty Broiler Pan
–
Before I pour the steak juice
down the sink
let Me tell You what I see:
–
I see Suns, many many Suns
made from fat globules
some closer, some farther
in a wash of reddish
nebulae
in the upper left-hand corner
— the right side
holds residual stars
too numerous
to count
& soon to dissolve
in dish soap
& even after cleaning
The Pan Itself
reveals an infinite
dusting
of white matter
baked in
Its enamel
The Hawk West Desk Window 8:50
My Humanity
is most most (sic) precious
possession
— I may get shot
for holding on to My
SELF
at the expense
of God —
God can fry
But Not I
The Hawk Portico 5:55pm
Another identifiable sound here
is the melodic fog horn
sounding now with no fog
in sight —
sounding every minute
at the 42nd second mark
of My Ladies Bulova Open Heart Watch
sounding, reverberating in the key of C or D
(according to Eliza)
for ten seconds at a stretch
but not drowning out the birds
Joanna Gilman Hyde 