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Gary Maxwell


Psalm

thou hast raised me up
from my bed of misery:
a nest of needles,
every midnight nuisance known,
no cellphone signal.

free range like chicken,
every bedpan overthrown,
now set on side streets
where the pigeons print my name
on waiting windshields.

sprung from the pokie,
granted gifts of air and sun,
I wait their winking -
winsome Barbies bearing beer
while I sit waiting.

Calendars

Have you ever mourned your way
from Christmas to Epiphany,
worn out by the weight of streaming shoppers
darting madly through the maze
of lights, partaking of the sacraments
of savvy salesmen, easy marks
for mercantile manipulators – priesthood
of the golden calf?

Have you smoked and screwed your way,
Fat Tuesday clear to Pentecost,
never coming up for air,
pituitary pitted like a peach seed,
keeping its own calendar,
counting down the days until you drown,
stone like, having skipped the sea
and then, well spent, you’ll seek the bottom?

Spare me all those Etch-A-Sketch
constructed constellations, I’ll take
fists of stars straight up, flung carelessly
where velvet shows, most intimately,
all the acts and outcomes of creation,
having no regard for cardboard boxes,
shipping crates or inventory tags
we use to keep that Power in its place.

thunder

her shorts hide nothing.

smiling in the subway night,

a silent offer.

garden underneath the ground.

each fruit a round, fresh marvel

ready for harvest,
and the longing of your loins

aches out an answer

to a hollow, drumming heart

that’s filled your ears with thunder

Picture
Picture

Gary Maxwell's Profile

Tanka

Golden Apple

this golden apple -
fallen from its hammered mold -
will gleam forever,
knowing neither rot nor worm,
never feeding anyone.

September 11

too much to tell you
parked beneath September skies,
and so I offer
ripened beauty, bitter worlds,
in a silent pool of rain.

team crow

team crow, tactical:

deployed and on the asphalt

in a show of force.

flying eyes report

bits of bun – and even cheese.

unfinished French fries.

they’ll take no chances.

murder works the open lot -

their eyes miss nothing.

what if a package

left where no one thinks to peek

holds half a hoagie?

everyone freezes.

only bad birds run away -

that’s what they tell us.

doomed souls are docile.

claws now have the force of law,

so we’ll keep silent.

this time there’s nothing.

wrap up, rasping last reports,

and then they scatter.

so many strangers

flying north and south these days.

we start – heart pounding.

how has it happened,

fearing foul and filthy flocks,

we trust birds in black?

Haiku

rosy-fingered dawn

rosy-fingered dawn,
shaking as she does each day,
squirms into her bra.

Comments?

***

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