A single rock
towers from the Antarctic frontier
 
nearly half the size of the world trade center,
which is probably an inept comparison,
 
(which, given the nature of the image,
will probably leave a scar); nonetheless,
 
there it is, standing
among a series of tooth-shaped pillars,
 
rising in the spirit of Grecian colonnades
or foreign travelers rising to board busses;
 
but, even in the midst of the Fenriskjeften,
the Jaws of Fenris, a certain unnamed
 
and essential move towards not naming exactly exists.
Fenris was a ferocious Norwegian wolf
 
whose ferocity itself stemmed from confusion—
the unavoidable politics of feeding chains.
 
In Australia, a parakeet bugles out
the beginning of Thursday
 
and something about Tasmanian collusion.
And now you see where we’re going.
 
We begin with wolf and end with a bird
(specifically, the budgerigar)
 
whose communications fill the air with traffic.
Over Montana an F-16 pilot scribbles a high-speed haiku
 
across the sky with two jet-hot cherry blossoms.  Below
people are eating nearly-fresh clams
 
(probably from New Zealand),
pleased to see the pulse of the sky
 
light up like a hospital machine.  An F-16, by the way,
because it’s the natural hybrid of bird
 
and wolf and I mention beer presently
for the simple purpose of raising ones glass.
 
What’s wrong with this planet
and its need to not know exactly? 
 
What do the comets have to be angry about? 
Black holes and satellites
 
and not being able to see Johnny Jump-Ups? 
Even the moon herself is driven practically insane
 
by an operator of considerable steadfastness
and a predilection for orbicular patterns. 
 
Meanwhile, seltzer bubbles make their way
up the sides of a one-liter,
 
rat-a-tat-tatting themselves to death
at the bottle’s mouth—romantics

or are these commissioned kamikazes? 
Is it possible they found the specific name
 
of their raison d’être? 
Were they present when the man,
 
deciding among luncheon meats,
noticed in the reflection of the deli case
 
an image of himself, its progressive appearance—
actually quite surprised that the word progressive
 
should come to mind?  On his way out of the store,
while playing a song in his head
 
he’d heard earlier that morning, and in anticipation
of a beat, he thrust his midsection forward.
 
The crosswalk light changed unexpectedly
(perhaps for a chuckle).  So there he was,
 
pointing with his hips nowhere,
or at least in the wrong direction,
 
and for the time as close to understanding
the stuff of this world as he would get.
 
We begin with a wolf and end,
as you’ve probably noticed, with a bird
 
whose communications fill the air
with traffic that tastes of sunflower.    

 

 

  

 
 

Dear Mr. Jason Ott,
 
You probably thought that the collection
of your debtor account was finished business.
 
Well, it isn’t.
 
You really didn’t think our client, Columbia
House, had forgotten about the $72.12 you owe them.
 
Have you ever considered the fact
that your name, Mr. Jason Ott, is on their records
as a delinquent account?
 
Realize you cannot hide from this just debt.
 
It’s time to set the record straight.
It’s time to pay the $72.12 you owe.
It’s the right thing to do and the right time
to do it.
 
Mail your check payable to North Shore Agency
in the envelope provided.  Get rid of the debt.
 
Sincerely,
 
E.J. Sullivan
Collections Manager
 
This is an attempt to collect a debt and any
information obtained will be used for that purpose.

 

 

  

 
  Pieper sleeps with a gun next to her. 
One in the chamber, six in the clip.  Her
dad taught her, “shoot to kill,”
 
lest she be sued by her would-be assailant. 
Her father’s the invisible man.  She makes
up all kinds of stuff—like the look
 
on “the old man’s face” mornings
when ex-girlfriends kick down the old
back door.  Her photo album
 
reads like x-rays or a really bad story—
all bones I tell her, just enough
to piss her off.  No bones she says over and over
 
so I’ve taken up playing the oboe.  Maybe
she’ll stop spitting at me.  Sometimes
the music induces a little nudity
 
and and and you know, hope and that invisible
island made of splintered palm trees
and non-dimensional falling stars. 
 
The other night (3am) I stealthily entered
Pieper’s backyard so as not to disturb
her wiry dogs, nor to call attention
 
to pupils large as nickels.  I watched
her bed sheet writhe like a plate of worms—
she noticed my silhouette at the foot of the bed. 
 
She hyperventilated and the three dogs,
two of which are terriers and you know
what a nuisance they can be, went apeshit. 
 
She claims her inner body separated from the outer. 
Last night she claims I attacked her
with my tongue.  Maybe she’ll stop spitting at me. 
 
It’s a violent canopy stands overhead. 
We’re thinking of adopting a past,
Can you give us a hand?