Three Poems

UNTITLED The unacknowledged legislators of this evening’s meal insist that we acknowledge our sources in the grandest of style. They insist that when we grow up we become narrative poems. I’ve dined beneath Roman arches in a lightning storm. I’ve dined by the banks of the Arno, the Tiber, by three creeks you’ve never heard of. There are several other meals I would like to tell you about while we’re here. The unacknowledged legislators would like you to place your damn order already. If you’re wondering whether I’m all talk, I can think of no credible way to respond. This is a nice meal. My belly swells in time with the music, courtesy of a stereo behind the bar. Your water glass rises and falls like several major tributaries. The unacknowledged legislators would like you to tip fifteen percent. They would like you to return the cutlery. Your water glass is filled courtesy of modern plumbing. The unacknowledged legislators would like to thank Hollywood Records for the appearance of Miley Cyrus, who will be checking your purse on the way out.   MOON Clean, sharp, a knife stepping from the shower. Pock-faced snowglobe without the snow, starry-eyed, moon, stop peering through the sunroof of my Volvo. As a preposition, the moon has few uses. As a pinball, the moon is a metaphor. When it humps, the moon insists you hump. After its latest skateboarding mishap, the moon has undergone several costly surgeries and is now partially bionic. For years of mismanagement, the moon presents you with a lawsuit in your name. From the First World’s left ventricle I pump my fist furiously for each small victory. The moon circles back on itself, clutching at its tail. Notch another one for The End of History.   UNTITLED Hier sitz’ ich, forme Menschen Nach meinem Bilde, or Ich bin ein Berliner. Which is not exactly what we’d say, and hardly fair, but that’s the world. Tragic, isn’t it. Translation an elephant that’s good at parties but give it some beer or teach it to speak German and suddenly you’ve got a trunk about you, two tusks articulating the air like an umlaut you can’t pronounce. See what respect for difference will get you?: An elephant’s heart drunk and leaning against the chest’s wall, muttering that’s not what I mean at all to whoever will listen. It’s a briar patch you could sulk under for days —but all that ivory brooding— is it too optimistic to hope for a better employee, someone that’ll just do what you ask? What about a skeleton held together with peanut butter? That could work.