Three Poems

  THERE IS A FIELD IN THE FIELD After the Penn State Riot   Their money illuminated. The film: There are soldiers in charge, lower soldiers eat the meat from their mouths. The audience's hands stickered-over their own mouths: recognition in a country of images, of criminals, electric with their alley-work, feeling out siren-lit bodies … “yes, they do have a choice,” they claw out the livers, the hearts big as rabbits, implant, make people, bombs. I have seen the static-fields burning on the other side of this. I want to tell you that the mirror is not the screen of an intention. It’s its own. Still, we are blaming our parents.   MAP, SIR, THE ITEMS Enter, steers File over the flat-way, hungry & ribbed, port-bell-collared, clangs clear as Om Mush Spin & stead out from under you, grass in the stainless steel pot of sky— OK, Turk, which app can tell us where we are? Iron hooves on, okra-sweet French dresses on, herbs smoked, us pepper goats— Chick, what kind are you? And your friends? Berry, Pecan, dear sun-dried pests, let us on— that cinnamon pain, that battered brew—we see you wanting our seams & powers: Belgian flew of whip, links, cuts, & shone-bones Never the swift wand finish, never alone   ONCE AGAIN, I AM SCANT WITH MY NEED FOR HIM Zero in. Appease me with a frame. The necessary catheter in his heart, thus fluid. For dirty cash: the unlocked cell. The gun in the criminal's face— Who are you? the criminal means to ask, but asks instead, stupidly, What are you doing?