Cabal

Cloud passes for a moment over
the street, calming the quivers of grass
on vast lawns, relieving the tarmac
of the worst bubbling heat haze.

A soft wind creeps up and tricks around
poolside cries of American boys and girls
that hang, chimelike, with the echo
of a monastery, wind and voices lull
together, the herald of a memory;

closing both eyes on the swings,
whipping like a rocket through the air
with, on all sides, a cabal of voices
like chants, the soft punt of a ball
sailing in the hot air overhead.

But after a twisted minute the cloud
is gone, the road is wobbling up
like a spread parachute, the plastic
mailboxes are microwaves on white sticks,
little Union flags fall limp in the noon
from their cheery poles at the end
of each driveway, among the shrubbery.

The children, whose shouts had risen
as incantations out of an unknown back yard,
are silent. Only chirps of street-noise now;
the flowers broiling, the milk in all the
the fridges cracking sour, the inaudible sigh
of Porches in garages, brand new, devaluing.

Through half-closed eyes, the clouds
crackle like an old time movie, black
with the heat and their great wet weight,
angelic Hindenburg crashing in a flicker
of cine flame through the stark blue sky.
Their passing to the horizon seems to
whiten and buckle the mind's blank corners.

On the hill above white painted houses
a huge crucifix sicks straight up out
of the trees, sun breaking the clouds
to tease leafy treetops with Zion valley
glow, but the white painted cross is over-
cast, Golgotha darkness haunts its pristine
timber frame. Below, the highway churns
day and night, traced by blind juggernauts
and nine to five hatchbacks. The billboards
are rectangles, blank steel frames warming
in the radiation of the Odeon car park.
The sun is out, every windshield has
its nova glare, white hot. June was wet,
July is going to blister. On the red brick
outside the mall, a smell of burning rubber.

Burr Pond and the sun's sunk almost
behind the conifers, spreads last sepia
across the cobwebbed water, catching
gold on the tangled twigs and drowned insects
scummy on the surface, sending families
goose-pimples to pack them back in the van.
The barbecues are folded, stowed, kids
are wet and scolded, crabby in the fading
evening with lake-chill and sundown.
The nylon towels, Disney emblazoned,
scratch young hides, muss hair, whining
follows the cool-boxes and volleyballs
back beneath the trees. Black teenagers
swear and joke, pull sandy swimshorts out
of butt cracks, and make off. The lakeside
is clearing out, but the last rowdy Latin
family hubbub hovers and swells under
the copse, a smell of charcoal and men's
deoderant lingers near the picnic benches.
The Canada geese amble out of the water,
shake, stretch their necks, and make
a survey of the noisy evening sands.

Big Crazies

I been down slurring records maybe
broken half a crown, big crane flies
struggling to free their feelers from the
corners of my eyes, or UP in the
polls, screw-crazy, stir-loose, the
big cheese, the man, the, the, the,
Escaped halfway across, skipped
no man's land to land in her lap,
but soon to be hoisted back up from
the conjugal to the merely cold by
the cold arcade claw of money, facts
situation, brass fucking tacks, oh,
honey, somewhere, stow me, I
don't wanna fly back to that godforsaken
North Sea dogger rockall hebrides
moderate to good ROCK flung like some
smeary turd from the heel o' Europe.
I don't want the mania, the dirt,
the lungs flapping like fish, junkbox
soldiers mugging me stealing my souls
one by one to sleep spare change, the
endless terrifying internet giving my
dreams tumours and setting off flash
bulb drive-byes bye bye birdy baby...
Gonna have to stuff all the big crazies
back down my esophagus and chew,
just use those blue eyes to hold me
firm, try not to be such a cry-baby.

Mild grey front lawn, the creak
of peeling shutters, cawing crows, and
the whisper of leaves on a slow
afternoon. Fuschias hang from baskets under
the eave of the porch, pink flamingo
beaks declining from between the leaves,
raw syrup accruing inside for the
hummingbirds to stab at as they hang
before the shaded front windows.

Dull green rocking chairs, a pair, sit in a
wooden monogamy on the decking, right
by the glass, paint and gilt edge of a fine
front door. Kathleen lounges in polka-
dot blue and white on the blanket
she brought out, kicking her heels up
behind the knees lying on her stomach
like movie starlet in the 50s, on the phone
nonchalant to her sister in Philadelphia.

Now she gets up, dreamy, and dawdles
her way to the porch swinging one hand
by her side, paces the boards slowly
like a white shingled catwalk still
chatting and fiddling sometimes with
the flowers, blue dress blue as the pool
bubbling chlorine behind the picket fence.

The lawn is clover all over, dry and thinly
carpeted with shy white flowers, bees
pecking at their stems and buzzing clumsy
quiet down into the loamy underneath,
down where ants battle to the death.

Quiet afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Telesco
potter round the kitchen so mousey
not-even-a-peep you could sleep and not
dream. Mrs. T stands, busy tidy pursed
lips, thin specs and amber ear rings,
at the counter folding Mr.'s boxers,
goofs with him while he's straining
his eyes at soldering that he's more pairs
than she has, and in so many pretty
colours. He's botching resistors onto a
Radio Shack circuit board, insisting
it's the cheapest crap to try to build
computers on, but what the hell it must
be done this Sunday or bust, Google
just gaffer-taped consoles and fused 'em
and they had millions to blow. He's
trying to build the world-computer,
hardwiring himself into Gaia, Frank-
ensteining hunched over grey-browed
dense and wise, snipping red wires, hot
iron in hand. Mrs. T has another kind
of monster brewing, almost cackling
gleeful as she heaves beef sides
into the big crock pot, farting the last
BBQ sauce from the upturned bottle
over the red hunks, maniacal smile
as she eyes the concoction, "I shoulda
been a butcher." No but really,
they speak all this only hushed,
getting on slowly with necessary tasks
as it's Independence Day tomorrow.
Kathleen comes in, plops her purse
down on the counter, twitches her skirt.
The flowers at the hem sway like
children's faces on a fairground ride.

UConn campus 1st floor hallway
shining with tube light white
on 100 metres checkerboard lino
dull cream color, occasional square
dotted pastrami pink or seaweed
green. Forever walls house green
office door frames, kinks down
a perfect vanilla spine, each faculty
a new vertebrae with novelty
coffee mugs in place of cartilage,
motivationals and fliers plastered
to the doors peeling so slightly
like day old sunburn. The dull
midday ripples the far tiles from
a big Mondrian criss-cross glass
wall down the corridor's end.
Every door has its number
but the last is steel barred and
badged EXIT lightbulb-retina-
afterimage red, in the night
this will be the only scenery.
Pastoral; Vivaldi "Spring", steady
light of fire escape, sheepish
quiet lowing of security camera
servos as it turns its head,
some peanut sucking joe has
his hand on the joystick tonight.
Ha. By day the flora fauna just
consist of the water fountain's
sparse inexplicable bellowing fan,
and the goatish melodrama of
some lecturer banging on about
the American War of Independence.

Breakfast Menu

McDonalds, American car park near
the mall, cast iron chairs with mint
color plastic arse dimples, row on
row beneath stuck-on marbled table
tops. Wrappings, still greasy undone
yellow and white like world's worst
sunflower, stare up at the pebble dash
polystyrene ceiling tiles' loose corners.
Texan family round soda fountain
like piglets, little ruddy screwed
faces, shaved-head son wears Stone
Cold Steve Austin skull T-shirt, fat
mom hippie tie-die, who can judge?
They are thirsty and loud nice enough.
Old timer grumbles about taxes in
his truck driver cap pushed back,
says hi to foxy septuagenarians
cruising by his table in their best
thurs am McD make-up and blouses.
Midget Latina server just arrived
and hangs in front, arms inside
her ultramarine work shirt for
warmth. Fat, friendly, hoop-eared
girl bungs burger-crates in the big
trash can by the two swing doors.
Out through the allround huge fish
tank window panes, blank school
photo grey light of a grey day
over white & grey Chevrolets, Buick
pops quick out the drive-thru, food
falling out the corners of its driver's
lips. On the hill, the traffic lights tick
over for the hundredth time today.

Evening lamp lit living room,
plain oval coffee table the white
of shingled New England houses
with coasters again floral, remote
diagonal, left last night that
way when the TV blinked
off. On the white table, guide
book to Italian art gallery,
photo albums big and square
full of thanksgiving and
graduation caps and smiles,
no ringmarks. Hay coloured
rug like giant welcome mat.
Sofas slouch brown thick
and warm, slight wool scratch.
TV, like rug, sofas and
albums, big and square.
Trapezoid lampshade leafy
brown casts that tungsten
filament vanilla glow on
the copper coloured lampstand,
printed out pages of chords,
and Kathleen strumming Bon
Iver, frowning and stopping
then speeding on like a stuck
record. She's wrapped in green
hoodie, concentrated, three
chords, the song sings from
the wood box and she goes,
but stumbles on the F.
Her feet are half peeked
blush pink out of her jeans
and she yawns plucking
at her lids to get a speck,
too tired from the insurance
place, poor baby. Hiccups
up ice cream and caesar
salad, strums on again.

Kitchen slash living room New
England, organic cereal box idle
on the counter of granite color
imitation, creamy vanilla sink
that can't stand boiling water, a
little row of soap & liquids handy
by extendable tap and plastic tumbler.
Petrol station glass left in sink,
with a sip of stale tap-drip hung
in the goggle bottom. Dish cloth
crumpled green drying like brand
new modern sculpture, neighbor
to white bowl symmetrical each way
but for cold potato fry fat in the
coin-size concave dimple. Cupboards
stolid brown rectangular full up
mugs plates bags champagne flutes,
all sealed up fresh dusted waiting,
dullest utility terracotta army. Dust
bunnies bustle back behind in
crevasses, where the screws and glue
hold the whole deal up there.