pistachio tree a la chateau noir

i. 
the palm tree receives the bat
cradles the three norteno songs
throbbing in
from all points of the compass
save one
(this is the red cardinal we should take up
when we finally put down our bodies)
in its herringbone fronded trunk
are folded the yowls of faraway dogs
an orgami of sound

where is the succor
where the honey that drips
i have felt no press of flesh
but i am still somehow real

the best we hope for:
the palm holds the crowned eyes
up to the sky
they do not become pouched
our hearing never degenerates
and full sentences hold purpose, never terror

the bat offers no threat
it does not even care that you are there
but it can be the totality of the night

ii.
i am the night
in leathern fingies
fur stroked whorl
curling
uncurling
dose of wake up cortisol
all pressed down
the dripping honey for the space between the ears

i am the night
don't wake up

why do
beautiful bands of color
appear
in the tiny oil slicks that form atop puddles on a rainy day?
what do slugs leave behind
that shines?
the first trace of color
the band snapped across the chest

who would dare to talk in the night?
and who would pray?

iii.
one should serve the jello gray
in the shape of a brain
on an oil slick tray

no one will ever have sex again
no one will marry
all music will be banned
only so that no one will ever talk about music again

santa teresa will remain pierced
in the house of her ecstasy
and some large curving bronze structures
will be permitted to stay standing
all else will crumble
the world will become the color of green pennies
though i think we will have put those
all underground by then

i have not said what is right
only what will be

iv.
after the green; the white
down where the pennies go
you can put your memories in a house of aspic
but this is not as good as bronze

v.
oh i am the night
nay-cree-us
know that the locust
breaks its leg open
attracted by the smell of oozing fat
begins to eat itself
all is so scarce
nay-cree-us
an old man feeding his son
the son drinks a glass of milk
the son manages
nay-cree-us
the cockroach
the beetle
the cat's eyes in front of headlights
nay-cree-us

who would dare to talk in the night?
and who would pray?

some tell themselves
it's a peacock

it is not

buy the golden arrows
turn up the funk
i am coming

Mr. O'Hara,

Frank,

King of Bourbon and Trembling Empress of the Island Manhattan,

My darling,

I miss you today.

Can I tell that the only thing pinned up in my drab office cube is your Song? Printed in a tiny typeface so you have to be close (as I am) to read it. I don't do this as hopeful gesture. I know you cannot visit me because you are dead. Your note is an instruction and I keep breathing. It serves.

I think you used to laugh at Allen Ginsberg for keeping so close his hero Walt, for writing poems to him, for crying out to the bearded American wonder when he, Allen, was drunk and awash in pills on your bathroom floor and ruining yet another of your parties. "Walt's dead, Allen," and so on. Cheeky, witty excuses for your sobbing compatriot to your other guests and so on. Banging on the door, "Allen, Allen, ALLEN," and so on. I'm sorry to exult you in a way that would make you laugh.

But, darling, dickhead, my angel, whatever you laid out in front of me, I've yet to learn. I remember when we met. Your sunshine sluttiness wafted in on dust motes. You were somehow filthy and read in a classroom. A classroom creaky and old as sin, under a teacher who would rather write than speak, but in a classroom nonetheless. You were beatific even with a mouth full of cock. Or so I like to imagine. My first salt circle, my first protective spell, I put around me with your words on my tongue. Clunk went the pipes on the third floor and the sirens wailed up 55th street and the police came in to strap her into a wheelchair and I clutched your lunch poems and my tears splashed the phone and in the interval I didn't have time to understand what you were trying to say.

Will you come back, my angel? Climb up to my apartment again? There are no fire escapes like in New York, but hanging out on the back porch has the added sweet irony of standing atop wooden exit structures in a city that burned to the ground not so long ago. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Throw your head back and laugh, won't you? You'll love the internet and I think you'll quite like the music they're making these days and I think I could help you to see the merits of beer.

Please, Frank. Darling, dickhead, my angel.

I miss you.

Gabe's Ballad: Balmy Summer Nights

Frankenstein appeared on the river and he leapt into a pile of smoldering leaves. He turned and saw the herd of oxen bearing down on him. "I'm really not that artistic, but like BAOOOOAHHHAOOOHAHHHHH," and scarred for life in the best way ever, the boy leapt down the rocks and pummeled to his death. But an old woman found his shoe sticking out of the junkyard of life. She unwrapped her shawl and filled the shoe with her spit. Pass, she threw it to the leapard that had appeared in drag on the rocks. The leapord adjusted his polka dotted tophat and smiled with a devious grin. "My my, what have we here." I'm just listening to this, but I'm bored BAOOHHHHAAOOWWOWWW. I think I see the development of a crazy cat woman. The woman drenched herself with the loafer-spit and laughed manically. My head is empty! said the leapard. No, that's what they said. Fake fishing. I'm leaving this room, BAAAAHHAWWOWWW. Now stop a moment, fuckwad, let's backtrack.
Frankenstein, looking for meaning in his life, decided to teach the leapard to dance. The leapard stretched out his elegantly painted claws to flip the switch on his stereo which began to blast songs of the old ages. She stood on one paw, her whiskers quivering in the moonlight. They meet a dolphin that can walk on land. It teaches them techno. They entered into a romance, all three of them, that will go down in the annals of polyamory. But their love affair did not last long. It shone brilliantly like a star, and then burnt out. That is all. Shortly thereafter, and only briefly before the apocalypse, there was a festival of mammoth proportions. Hamsters on a wheel, a human ferris wheel. They were celebrating the coming apocalypse and engaging in orgiastic raving. Religious leaders commanded them to eat 300 clementines each and glues the skins to their skin. Unfortunately, the jubilant people could not find enough women named Clementine. Many many miles away a woman named Clementine rode through the ocean in a small boat filled with marshmallows. Clemetine was omnilingual, she spoke all languages, including the language of the ocean and the trees and the wind. But when deprived of marhsmallows, alas, she was deaf and dumb. BAAAOOOAAAOWWWOWW. She ate all her marshamallows, called the apocalypse, but didn't hear it, so she survived. Vegan marshmallows will not save you on a boat. Don't eat marshallows because the apocalypse will get you.