Put Your Hands In

by Chris Hosea

  We grip our bags firmly beside ourselves. Salt air bursts each thought

  bubble. Sweeps us into night on the out breath. All roads lie scattered

  with alarm clocks’ gutsy guts. Gleam as they bleep. Only one mote counts

  at a time. Watching the rushes. Not seeing what is so reassuring, the shh of

  rain on skylights. Yet it is still. Come listen. Soft-spoken workers arrive to

  sweep the chimney though we haven’t one. Another ant trap will go missing.

  FATHER WORK

  Oracular always, the summer sun rolls its arcs. Read shadow scripts you

  forget what went unsaid, the significant look. All that milk spilt over

  nothing. Leaves a lot. Of course where you haven’t been is there the while.

  Too much imponderable detail nevertheless graces. Try to think it, not

  only of it, nor yet through it. Each character unwinding a waxy scroll, from

  this time to another. If they break. Sometimes you wait for a story, then

  listen as the illustrated familiar auditions in his strange tongues. Farm out

  a decade’s empties for sea glass. Another collection goes uncatalogued.

  Or emblazon her every change of expression. New gospels swell where the

  dusk glows. Turn calendars ahead a year, not a day too soon. Hear all those

  bottles clank colors in shallows, or could be some waterfowl. Hard to tell.

  Hidden, a line of sand heaps up, cursive, fixed for breath.

  MISTRESS DAMAGE

  Blue light is special. Hesitate to take the moonlit stroll. Because animals.

  Fenceposts. A silver car, not a squad car, patrols. Only seems to be, not

  means to be, here and there, coming to and going fro. Say we are juggling

  and you watch all the pins. Or each. Or throw in one or another. Eventually

  all walks are circular. Stitch me that. A lot of good correctly described as

  home. Framed, there to ponder. Say more. A child couldn’t believe we were

  each and all blameworthy. Then all homes are moving. Though one’s own is

  enough, and each loved. Of course uncalculated watercourses unform part

  of the turning earth. Really. Stereo songs celebrate or chide what there is to

  squander. If I had a turntable. Night’s Braille moo calls that bluff.

  CHOIRBOY SKITTLES

  Rain days grasses bristle under and shine. Water steps across and down,

  over and through. Leaves it shakes as it goes. And those others, they keep

  comfort. A cone of combustion zips up, unzips the storm. We are set to

  awake unalarmed. Gone down to the park, you see deer look up from

  dandelions by the fence. What you lack in breakfast you make up for in

  strange graffiti lore. The sum of initials in a heart may be a tree overgrown

  with ivy and oaths. Anyone can play the recorder. It is not an order.

  COUSIN POT

  A band snaps aloud. Piles and piles of speakers. A parade striking soon.

  You hear it gather behind stores, their fronts blue and steel. Sighs hesitate

  up a dim hotel hall. Then you are outside. I’m afraid the establishment is

  out of clay pigeons. We forgot so many favorites, still there is nothing to

  fear. A species of faith. Seeing Uncle Sam’s finger wag, close your eyes,

  type by touch. Why not begin listing trees. Aspen, birch, cherry, dogwood.

  Winsome is a word goes unspoken. Pert, puzzle, inquire. Faster as some

  cycle without spokes. Low to the ground. A job done. Against riotous

  skies the town stands down. Puzzle a verb. What was interrupted, put

  down, now is rooted. Recorded under bylines. Scarcities gather. Yesterday’s

  magazines dry as flour.

  FRIEND’S GIRLFRIEND KOOLS

  Part of outside slips in with August’s traffic. It shows where clothes need

  minding. Here are many gardens. A truck gleams its fine details at noon.

  Maybe airbrushed. Like the side of a black can in green caffeine colors,

  lizard tongues, snake curls, neon flame. Jealousy in emulation, pride in

  restraint. The hallowed pump rightly foreign. Yet in its place. A new-made

  strange shed. An old shed strange. Stores a space we duck our heads there.

  Call that a species of nodding. Another carbon drawing brings up changes

  as we turn toward it. As if sunflowers. As if we could walk into the display.

  Screen doors need saving, stitch with floss, accept perspective. Borrow a

  pencil. Because before long. Lines of parents nodding. Not in approval or

  estimation or judgment. Keeping time. Speaking in hushed tones, these

  are awake.

  SISTER CHABLIS

  Change colors until your jacket’s out at sleeves. Fold it for another town’s

  seasons. The escaped almanac says October will ignite some days, weave

  its mulch, come down as a torn quilt. This almanac with dates scratched

  out, useful still. Ghosts just are their clothes. Certain planets, beady-eyed,

  elliptical, tuck in as for second supper. Heavens their table. Do not forgive

  all that I say, but choose. A setting or outer atmosphere. Some ways the

  land lies please. Or it is cussed hardheadedness. We jump feet-first into

  rivulets. Only a little. It hurts. When the rooster crows, alone you toss and

  turn. The bag man, says the inky actor in voiceover. As if that made sense,

  dawn clears the counters.

  MOTHER OLD FASHIONED

  Past parti-colored grasses at field’s edge, a bright tin can dangles cut twine.

  We did leave by this road. Herds startle, because they will. You were telling

  me potluck secrets, and now that I have forgotten them, your photo is

  in Mexico. Steam in the ears may make for better hearing, years later.

  But how about that. One day. There is one day always. Mix it, and let it

  precipitate in you.

  BROTHER OXYCONTIN

  My brother isn’t here. I wake and know. But you are, and somewhere he

  is, somewhere else. Sudden violence in father’s snores and when they

  stop. A few thoughts like drum-cracks. Let them be. A deal was struck,

  hand under thigh. Who was blind, who made a bad bargain, who fed

  the famished. We were to arrive at a mountain. Neither of us a candidate

  for apotheosis. Shot on the sidewalk, in a snapshot, phrases written on

  our backs. Then they still use red pencils. That mountain, undermined by

  shafts of fool’s gold, was never ours. Yet we never wanted it. The minutes

  of the mining company listing all they paid in meal. My brother went to

  make peace with an oligarch, goes by Dusty McScrooge. I was for joining

  miles of gentle dispute to a big city. So I thought. We became weavers just

  itching for the times. Then all lines went down. A humming arrived, a long

  electric echo. You are forever standing outside stores. Tell me where we

  meet tonight.

  NEW OIL TODAY’S MEN

  She wears genuine out yells

  at wrappers that line wood-

  land trails low down circle

  round the moon her index

  rings spoiled skies hang

  a while filthy cummerbund and tie

  hands pick the looming white

  will to blow Pentagons bigger

  opening weekends crowds

  automatic pants roll down downy

  make greasy leg holes oilier

  showing pressing fibers gold white

  essence of what is not not known

  Megadeth T-shirt poetry Spoon

  T-shirt poetry spleen greeting

  rakes after t
he last hand folds

  on the last smooth hopeful lap

  take all holistic perfumes

  every homily baked fresh this day

  skip to my drill or private will

  I make your life a living hell

  clamber up the sodden steps

  with mallets on pallets

  let jewels shine free forever

  STOP ME BEFORE

  The turnout is smaller and smaller

  wanted charismatic leaders set in firms

  if I kill again the jungle surrounds us no

  consolation where record stores used to be

  last fifty pages outlaw bible blank

  watching squirrels is total magic

  making posters in orange and pink on a Mac

  we made these books by hand we stitched them

  you are late for brunch I want to kill again

  if our chairs were more comfortable if

  servers on skates heaped popcorn stout

  if an oak splits apart in laughter in that

  splitting its sides it could feel emotion

  you know what I give up if plants had feelings

  they do not so shut up shut up shut up

  I think I will walk home but take the train

  every old man on the planet burns with lust

  some tween wants me to see she hates her dad

  how she tilts at me the diary rolling off her Bic

  she could kill me with her pen in an electric chair

  matrons in the midst of fantasy series too easy

  try to dry my face in a towel full of yesterday

  uncertain project man these texts I smoke on stage

  I hate the word craft call me

  FICHTE

  I sit on propositions what will

  disperse clouds watermelon green

  drop me again into your trap hurt me

  it all comes from goes back to

  fossils you hear a kind hand behind

  rubbing your shoulder your thigh

  not too hard just right ink stitch

  cups a boob toward the table lamp

  bubble cursive not really from girl

  a fine period poster refolded

  ants to apes see me it is in line

  in order not alphabetized still pure

  you call your truth hate and slay me

  hit me with it baby till I babble curse

  you’re a high high croaker on the totem

  generating style only for you is my curse

  shoot up brain dust make me feel shade

  it hurts living free and always having to die

  I get on top and ruin another futon

  while you’re in the hall calling out heat

  come back in with another outfit

  crumble on my chin knock over the lamp again

  it all makes sense to you there’s no saying

  PORCUPINE FEVER IS GONNA GET YOU

  Look back no do not look back

  I was beautiful in my younger days

  every tire track a work of art

  Mauritania Kenya had never seen such

  I wrote the longest text and now

  I can’t send it from Mumbai India Gobi

  what time is it there is no time for this

  ugly palace stand sentinel over us

  vacuum women wear orange headphones clean

  all the shady lonely men you will meet

  doors open close them soft though

  sticky second-class car thighs sticky

  think of dinner two Ugg prints on the moon

  moans make pain sound good getting off

  on it hurts this mess cats tykes

  keeping one thousand calendars it’s too much

  it’s so much a bookshelf from dead phones

  an interview and a blog deal

  just to dance after a day at desk

  I can see why at moments but can’t

  make it happen really break the mold

  so this could be an orgy of tears

  everyone just holding each other’s jewels

  bawling about hurling the world in a bin

  not enough ears for this urgent appeal

  under the mic stand I’m wanking now

  and whiskey makes me angry a mean mean drunk

  I need Sue to be my life coach or you and she’s fake

  a calming chamomile infusion

  placebo hugs make skin leathery or thin

  I just slap more lotion on and forget the last hour

  let me hear from you no words

  I just like your moaning whatever the cause

  spanked or fucked or confused or pleased

  at harvest time I will look into your silent eyes

  and we will find meaning in quiet

  agreement that at last we know under the moon

  how evil we are how calm and how true

  FAGGOT SAID THE GUY IN THE TRUCK

  I do not think I will ever suck

  a poem as lovely as a dick

  Loretta Buick said one night

  taking me on her bike

  down Lefferts Boulevard

  I will ever remember

  her Debbie Gibson T-shirt

  fifty cities and towns

  I’d only been to

  the rain baby cocks driving cocks of rain

  part dawn like Kirsten Dunst

  part sunset like Virginie Ledoyen

  rides no hands behind a tough

  a woman more Arc than Joan

  set me down on any curb

  Sunset Park mutilated by gin

  as in outer space no up no down

  no number of dives

  no number at all

  WISHED FOR HATER SEQUEL

  Burst of piano mash starts it

  creasing general intention for indifferent brunch

  gaggles of obvious friends some there

  some not tilted to fresh reports the hospitals the schools

  the formation of cliques without crystal structure

  that shit could be called a crystal stayed behind a filter

  waiter chided me for tossing salt over the wrong

  talk about superfund superfun spots future grandparent

  I signed your forearm with a fingertip you moved

  back to my lap where my phone repeated my ex-wife’s name

  punters without butter or manners or mammaries

  team sport headaches why you can’t get off the bench

  who wished she had the balls to brick a Starbucks

  stop telling me telling me we should all be Shakers

  did you see the bit in the tabloid what said

  all human nipples will soon run dry

  LOTTO BLUES

  I cough dreams diamonds come

  rooftops scenic places of which you recall

  James Brown facts car chase easy search

  hearts pump honey butter wiggle toes

  KONY 1802 Stendhal was here

  lucky delivery truck serial digits

  since women do it better all day

  shoot rims smack plate glass hard

  a fight to the polish you have

  such a dead smile it kills me

  I WILL NOT BE EXPRESSED

  I sense clean bones picked clean

  flick noses at bars afterlife jazz

  pipes and trombones come on in

  this room is fine not near mint

  throw the fight let the sea pull

  under the waves your salt tears

  taste seaweed rock you like waltzes

  tinkle waste in a cup you’re so pregnant

  clocks spin lesser ballerinas

  tops different dervish yelps

  the exotic another erotic bore

  learning to make pastries and laugh softly

  a little too heavy for your mom’s preference

  walk away idle hours pool or no

  did you know you knew ongoing siege

  I need to make you t
ire into compromise

  take you out and fuck with your dreams

  the same but different I make an appearance

  please please please let me let me let me

  be insincere all night it’s all right

  I don’t teach yoga haven’t seen the regatta

  I work the register of birds alighting

  down stained platforms statues and curbs

  today I know I will never teach yoga

  but lick your ass truly call me you are lost

  WELCOME MUSIC

  Got dots and lines down there

  walk around around like citizens

  helmet legs to match pianolas

  messages I distribute them you won’t listen

  what bleeds into an earth already vile

  rude and disgustingly

  you say I will always be hungry for perfume

  wrestling damp sheets oily pillowcases

  send money to agencies that follow

  NSA CIA FBI NSC INTERPOL MI6

  degrees prove degrees you’re genius and so what

  fairer than an orchid white as sperm whale ambergris

  too hot for nerves galleries

  swift I am at a boil at four a.m.

  when will I spitball the concept of glamour

  lust’s busted trumpet

  too new to be polished

  let it rust

  IF THERE BE A SEASON

  Use paint glue scratch strip-

  per poles permanently

  time a new campaign

  flip off real friends

  keep pictures on detachable drives

  litter under copter spots

  beatbox cop talkie static

  fudge peanut butter pains oh stains

  be annoyed be fooled it is love but don’t say it

  propose projects willows

  pack brown paths tubercular caves

  use less yeast

  set a dry cow pie afire

  say yurt

  meditate at vanity

  be on the run just because

  close eyes with your hands your own

  have emotions you can’t keep

  larger cup holders

  practice one way for a minute