Four Poems

Declaration of Sovereignty

Same poet,
more in focus

historically competent
with pretty words

rarely short-tempered,
5 foot 6

aggressively interested
in football

but that was
always true.

A Conversation Between John Fisk the Sound Guy
and My Grandmother Jane Pietrzak in Heaven


John Fisk was the sound guy at the Poetry
Project at St. Mark’s Church in-the-Bowery.
My grandmother Jane Pietrzak worked in the
deli down at Bells.

John Fisk smoked a lot of pot and thought the CIA
helped the Dalai Lama get out of Tibet.
My grandmother dipped cheese danishes into
Lipton Tea and kept a Kleenex in her sweater sleeve.

When Lou Reed insulted John Fisk at a sound
check at the Poetry Project, John Fisk said
“you’re an asshole too.” My grandmother was
insulted when the Catholic Church let women serve the
communion host but she never called anyone an asshole.

John Fisk had a ponytail and he liked to gnash
his teeth. Lewis said Bernadette let him
fuck her up the ass. My grandmother had a
ponytail hidden under her wig and would have
had a heart attack about Bernadette and John Fisk.

My grandmother died of a heart attack on her
couch at 257 Person Street in Buffalo. John Fisk
died of lung cancer somewhere in New England
and he left Bernadette his car.

When my grandmother died they buried her
in a pink coffin with pink carnations in the
middle of February and I stayed in bed for weeks.
When John Fisk died I was sad but not inconsolable.

I can see John Fisk the sound guy in heaven,
and my grandmother Jane Pietrzak in heaven
too, him with his blue bandana and snot in his
beard, and her clutching her Kleenex and crochet
hooks, both of their long silver ponytails glittering
in the raw celestial light.

Smart Song

...........for Taso

God praise all the guppies
and everything that breathes
God praise this calendula
that opens in the breeze
God praise all the slant rhymes
that fill up through the day
God praise yes the crocodile
who never learned to neigh
God praise Mrs Chavez
whose mother last week passed
God praise each slight porcupine
not one can move too fast
God bless God the maker
the maker needs grace too
God bless God’s own furnace fires
that forge all life anew.

Poem


Rascally, the vision center
and the sparrows

emptily the rain
of the summer
in the winter crosswalks

dreamy death
in some fancy movies from Europe

a boat still rocking
on the avenue of sycamores

by boot steps
accumulated, mummified,
among the hosts

every sheen
of cat fur,

each and every dandy
in a real and darkened coat

die Nacht ist kalt
und der Himmel ist inky

a little pencil scratch
to nestle where we are.