THE KISS OF DEATH

is a family kiss, blood to blood,

Michael Coreleone

gripping brother Fredo

by the chops

and planting a big one

to signify the ancient meaning:

“You're fucking dead/

I love you,”

the original mixed message,

passed branch to branch

up the family weeping willow

since Cain and Absalom,

like the last kiss

I gave my father,

lightly on his forehead

as he lay gowned and diapered

in his last room, his skin

damp, his mind cornered

by something bad come round

to grill him every waking hour,

maybe by the dream I had,

where I finally threw a punch,

then kept it up till I snapped

awake,

or maybe by a dream he had

about his father, that mostly-

loving man he said would sometimes

flail him with a razor strop

⏤ once till Grandma screamed ⏤

and kiss him afterwards.

My father taught himself

to flail with words

and silences. His kisses stabbed.

“I love you, Dad,” I lied

to no one in particular before I left,

wiping off the blade,

meaning every word.

   ⏤ from Flickers, University of Arkansas Press

FOOL NOIR

It felt like every other night in this crummy town,

like you'd been cold cocked and stuffed in a dumpster,

like when a pet store ferret crawls up your pant leg

and bites you in the balls, like when you've sloshed in

wet cement and don't know it till you see the tracks

on your new carpet, yeah, and then see darker tracks,

from when you set your sock on fire trying to light

a cigarette the way Bogie did in The Maltese Falcon

and danced hitch-kick flambe around the living room,

knocking Dad's ashes off the mantle and into the fondu

you put out for the big party nobody but the cops

showed up for. Yeah, business as usual in dullsville

⏤ till she walked in, but that's another story. Yeah.

                                    ⏤ from Ship of Fool, Red Hen Press   

                 STARK WEATHER

                                     . . . and it seem as though i could

                                     see ny heart before ny eyes, turning

                                     dark black with Hate of Rages, or

                                     harhequinade, stripped from that         

                                     munner life leaving only naked being-Hate.

                                                                  Charles Starkweather

On the Great Plains in March,

the wind blows for days.

Gutter pipes vibrate, shingles flap;

things begin to come loose.

Once they found old Miss Purdy

wandering at midnight on U.S. 40,

her nightgown blowing

over her spindly, blue-gray thighs.

It took three deputies to hold her down

till the doctor arrived.

On the Great Plains in March,

the dry elm scrapes

at an upstairs window,

dust devils swirl and disperse

across the wide, empty fields,

and a pistol shot sounds

no louder that a screen door

slapping on a porch.

                      ⏤ from Enter Dark Stranger, University of Arkansas Press

POETS' CORNER

They put me in right field

because I didn't pitch that well

or throw or catch or hit,

because I tried to steer the ball

like a paper plane, watched

Christmas gifts with big

red ribbons floating through

the strike zone, and swung

at dirt balls. So they played the odds,

sent me out there in the tall grass  

by the Skoal sign, where I wanderd

distant as the nosebleed seats

my father got us in Comiskey Park,

my teammates looking

remote and miniature,

their small cries and gesticulations

like things remembered

from a dream. I went dreamy,

sun on my face, the scent

of sod and blue grass, the lilt

of birdcall and early cricket

bending afternoon away

from fastballs and hook slides

to June's lazy looping

single:  baseball at its best,

my only fear the deep fly

with my name on it,

meteoric as Jehovah

or coach Bob Zambisi

closing in to deliver once

again the meaning of the game:

what it takes to play, why I had to

crouch vigilant as a soldier

in combat, which he never

had the privilege of being,

and stop that lolling around

with my head up my ass,

watching the birdies and picking

dandelions like some kind of

little priss, some kind

of Percy Bitch Shelby.

         ⏤ from Flickers, University of Arkansas Press

FATHER AND SON PROJECT 220:

MODEL AIRPLANE BUILDING

Plastic ailerons, struts, antennae

sprawl about, fragile as hummingbird bones.

Boldface warns: To avoid damage, tweezers

are required in handling the smaller parts.

We break four pieces in Assemblage A,

squirt an ounce of glue on Instrument Panel,

join Tab C inseparably to Tab N, spill

Tang across a sheet of filigreed decals.

“Grrr,” I say, belching up a taste of meatloaf.

“Grrrr,” he replies, his new incisor bared.

Aroused, I grab a wing, bite through it,

munch thoughtfully. He snaps the tail

in two, then seizes the small gray pilot

and chews off an arm. “Yum,” he grunts.

Coarse fur sprouts from his ears his forehead

as my great black snout probes the wreckage.

Our dog snuffles in, stares, whimpers out

just before the rampage. We chew, bite,

tear, crush the rest to bloody scrap.

He nips at my ear, asking for more;

I snort, cuff him gently across the rug.

Refreshed on frenzy, Papa and Baby sniff

the air, lumber off toward the kitchen.

⏤ from Enter Dark Stranger, University of Arkansas Press