Thanks to Matthew for the submission.

Just Call Me Beastmaster of the Morning

My clout sweeps backwards as I run, girded with a sash of garnets.
Sapphires set ablaze by the fire and light of my movement.
And of course I run vertically, dumbass—of course I face forward and down.
Jesus Christ—that’s just the way you do it— not face up or side-saddled,
side-Earthed, if you prefer. So as you draw my extruded arms
and waves and  bubbles, my companions remain surprised at my world
into which I am drawn.  Listen up, mortals, gather round me
as I caw caw caw while small mammals bite me,
for I am in their wise company, for this Beastmaster
will prepare meal for you. He will assign seating according to your hair.

– from The History of My World Tonight

COMMENTARY TO THE FIRST STANZA
I don’t know why she showed me her bumpy head.
She went off and became a painter,
a good one really, who liked to show groups of kids
languid and calm after playing all afternoon.
After I looked around in her room
she never spoke to me again,
the forbidden knowledge of what deforms us
forgotten until now.  It must be age.
Shame can only be given in particulars.
I tell these stories to explain why people stop liking me.

– first published in Hollins Critic, 2001; also from The History of My World Tonight

Not the actual ceramic apple, but an approximation.

The Ceramic Apple

From deep inside the ceramic apple
on top of the family fridge, I noodle out
a photo, hidden for years.  The Fourth of July
parade, Maryville, Tennessee, the eastern tip
of the state, visiting relatives.  I was a punky kid
with long bangs, and sulked on the curb,
skinny legs wide-flung in shorts,
watching bands march by. I refused to smile.
Both of my hairless balls were hanging out
in the snapshot, and were visible from across the street.
Why did my mom keep this embarrassment,
tucked under tacks and spare birthday candles?
Whole color guards must have passed, distracted
by my sagging family jewels. I was reunited
at last with distant cousins.  Like Dicky Bird Nester.
He was cool.  He had a speedboat
and was my new hero.  I told Dicky Bird
about junior high band, and how I played trombone,
the cruelest instrument for a pubescent
boy to play.  The slide was always
barreling out, jutting, knotted, protruding.  I still know
one song, the bass part
to that damn Coke commercial,
“I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing,”
when everyone held candles, singing,
beaming for the camera.

–first published in Mudfish, 1997

That is actually Andy.

Found Poem: Gene Simmons Impersonator
From Tribute: A Rockumentary

A lot of Genes—
and I don’t want
to name names here—
get caught up in
the character
and forget who they
are. It’s a trip—
you know you’re
looking out to
the audience
and they’re looking
at you—but you’re
not you—you’re
someone else—and
that’s a weird
connection—because
when I’m looking
at them I’m
someone else—and
I hope you’re
buying into
this. It’s easy
to sink into
it. But last night
when I saw Dave
do his Gene, I
knew we could move
on without Andy.

– first published in The Dead Horse Review, 2007