From VOL 6, NO 1

Implement      pg. 3676     Inclined Plane 

 

What implement can I use, what words
will bring you back? In an incantation,
I’m caught under the condor’s shadow.
Poor light refracts this field
to Impressionism—a separation

of brush strokes. Who says distance
makes the image clearer? There’s static
on the phone again, we wait
to re-establish connection, I’m losing perspective
—dizzy from hunger

and the transient effects of color. Bells ring
on Inchcape Rock: someone’s dying of famine.
Colored strands of string
with knots mean: a new road
has been carved, or we’re a thousand miles away,

send food. These cords
were carried by swift runners;
the Incans never developed a system of writing.
A letter takes a week
to cross the distance of six states.

Inclinometers measure the angle
between now and when I’ll see you next:
a dangerous degree. When saying goodbye,
is it easier to be the one who stays
on the ground or the one who flies away?

A plane appears at an incline
to the horizon. As the ink
of another Iowa day runs dry,
two farmers, like the workman pictured
on this page, load a trailer. They roll

the cargo the length of the slope, drive
a highway that winds up the hillside.
Making use of a plank—weight times
the greatest imaginable distance
of a board—should equal less work. 


from VOL 4, NO. 1

little jesus

  

a large statue of a baby jesus
will make your house look small
even if it’s christmas even if it’s not
there are many missions in california
in los angeles I still haven’t learned spanish
like a prayer forgive me
for taking the baby jesus for a ride
in my little red wagon if I were to talk
I’d say something wrong and wouldn’t get home
I’d like to go you can bet on that
in this nativity scene the shepherd has lost
an arm the sheep are old and cracked