if i had a hammer

 

i’d hammer in the early afternoon

the blinds partially open

leaves for the watching

sun as my witness

on the bed not as hard

as it used to be

the sheets soft and old

greasy cotton

in the warmth of each other’s

tired laughter

our bodies well worn books

haven’t tired of reading

a long time

since you opened me

and i opened you

to admire our soft and funny shapes

and find pleasure

from the justice of toes

knees stomachs

with nervous hands

and mouths to the flame

flames and rivers

soft hard feelings

at best i’d forget my hair

and earrings

and get tangled up trying to find

the place where we meet

year of the little dragon

 

in a dream i resolve

to speak louder

waves of ecstasy

many plaudits

from dream friends

big ripe wordberries

where mm used to mmmbling

waking friends

congratulate the opening of my throat

chakra the belfry

of my stifled batty

urges telling loud jokes

while smiling

is a great risk

to assert i’m here 

queer and cheerful

or sad disapproving

loud in anxious clothing

beyond tethered

eyelids i’m a breath

from deep in the pelvis

belly bound

expanding in the open

diaphragm a breeze

in the supple throat

breaching like free willy

and hopefully

not another day

in captivity

if a guitar isn't a wooden man

 

if a guitar isn’t a wooden man

than what am I plucking

strumming with an open hand

a box full of noise

geometry of necks and nuts

and bridges

strung so tightly

the wood buckles

if a baby speaks to a guitar

with the same courtesy

as nylon yields

to calloused fingers

can wide eyes dancing in the baroque

fashion apologize for

animating this still-life

with his glossy grapes

a game of inches

 

I’m no snowier now the mountains

grow between my shoulders

I carry a crying mountain

kiss his cheek

the bellowing expanse

between his sleep

my nerves a rockfall

sweeping cracks

and chimneys

on the face I’m no snowier

than when i froze

seeing a mountain born

his tiny voice

a facsimile of meadows 

and grinding stones

I’m the same

sheep home

the place where trees stop

and marvel

at how little has changed

this century

rededication to the righteous cause of names

 

they named a street

after my great grandpa 

my dad thanked the mayor

on behalf of the family

honored but unable 

to attend the ceremony

on account of

they named the city

after the father

of zionism

it never occurred to my mouth

how herzl

lived in herzliya

it occurred

to ask what the street was named

before harry davidowitz

and to beg

my dad not to go

I forgot to ask

what herzliya

had replaced

apollonia would’ve been

the deliberate

misleading answer 

on account of

alharam or sidna ali

would be a confession

too obvious

to locate on google ai

in the family photo album

im named after harry

a street that used to have another name

or likelier

the whole skeleton

had been removed from its body

supplanted by luxury condominiums

renamed in honor 

of forgotten zionists 

by chance

amidst a genocide

sex education in the town of liberty

 

the concord, nevele, and fallsview

don balaclavas and ski off into the dark change

gramma talks about waiters with white gloves

franks in blanks and tastes that never changed

guys and dolls beneath the fluctuating pitch

of an utterly sky masterson

deep beds of leaves to fall 

in colors for eyes that struggle to differentiate

when seasons mature

become self assured

or lose confidence

in the poesy of groundhogs

cold feet 

change by the altruism of heater vents

just as little boys at the clubhouse

give puberty lessons

the myth of semen

kidnaps psyche from my wintry

cloud in the cul de sac

where grampa’s mustache still needs trimming

cartoons blair

in the stratified kitchen air

pulsing heat from the lips of vinyl

flooring

a gut punch of boredom

from a mockingbrother

a mouth washed of premature curses

by old hands denying change

apologies to the mess on the berber carpet

and the kindergarten teacher

late to school

for breakfast at burger king can’t change

hurt bellies

or second prizes

at the county fair for pumpkins

who didn’t drink enough milk

how many pieces of chocolate cake can i eat

 

how many pieces of chocolate cake can i eat

respectably

while i make new friends

i hold precious crumbs

like nicknames of estranged relatives

the address of a lutheran church

attachment styles

hereditary glitches

the smiles i leak

about disease addiction

who gets to hold a microphone

and who gets a plate of snacks

i feel my history weep like icing

in the heat of reflection 

little drops of laughter

condense 

lonely in the internet riddle

i miss my old friends

the sweat between stomachs in love

slices of afternoon cake

an invasive species grieves the burning

 

mustard yellow cliffs 

scanty muscled soft and gliding

bodies of scalding sand

stringy tanks moth holed and sheer

endeared to a body 

that wasn’t yet ailing

it was

coconut’s nectar and green algae

that sent the brain to recess

gaudy glasses on an aging punk

string lights above a spit

a dancing ballerino of piña

I was 

raw inside

and bronze on the skin

the cars brayed and bucked

and shuttled to the slaughter

of metered onramps

saw david beckham at the grocery

promoting bee pollen

is the rationale

I gave to perfect skin

and hairs I dreamed of having

or plucking

parrot feathers in pasadena

seedily dancing in the jacaranda

elliot gould’s midlife fantasy

walking the fire trail

with everybody’s dog

thai spring rolls spanakopita and milk chocolate peanut squirrels

parked on the roof of kaiser sunset. sunset. bluzzy downtown sock of haze.

griffith park a small brush fire. baby sleeping naked in his mother’s lap.

waiting for poop in a plastic trough. naked baby hours. read the cd 

sleeves hours. imaginary trader joes shopping list. prolonged 

cooing. window cracks the shell. claustrophobia. day rate 

parking. comical spoon in collection vial uslesser than 

clothes in a hot car. than news. surrounded by 

scientology blue campus. sky 

falling feeling. 

baby smiles 

in his sleep. 

smiles.

greasing the beach ball

i do remember 

16 years ago

i remember drinking

acid rain i remember 

cloud seeding 

i the vacuous

blue winter 

shredded chicken

cooked in night oil

lettuce dangerously 

uighur biscuit

remember a broken 

string on the er hu

small phones fake 

and faker watches 

is fake real 

memory or an art 

shop by the university

for craypas ink

or the brushes 

of calligraphy 

that evaporate 

remember 

the pavement

greasing 

the beach ball 

tai chi at dawn

white flats with

gum soles

walking backwards

getting younger

remembering

more about puppies

in cardboard boxes

squash vines in

the parklet

on the balcony

with long eyelashes

of bamboo

and laundry lines

on a weathered

face so young

 

in the book of children

 

I wish you music

I wish you suites of affection

a bold borscht recipe that soothes you

deep purple and a dollop of cream

I wish you merely mild

distaste for the sound of my eating

I hope your teeth don’t rot

as fast as mine and universal dental care

I wish you shirts

that smell the way i smell

nonetheless and extra buttons

in case and well worn hats

I wish you won’t have to buy a suit or wear one

unless you want to and you can wear the one

the only one i own it’s sky blue

italian from a thrift store in a music school

that closed during a pandemic

may you hardly know the word

and wear a dress or nothing if you like

thrift stores will survive i wish

you books and the prosperity of imagination

I wish you real friends in the world

language and languages and languagages

like love and romance and maths

if you want

a warm down sleeping bag

to sleep on a hill or not sleep

curious as a rolly polly

less skittish but still careful

reckless laughter

your mother’s hair

and my fingers