Version #1
Poem #5

The Races

My vocabulary
starch stiff as a board,
fluidly flat,
     like a pancake without syrup,
ran out of words
       here.

And then here too.

But then picked up with momentum
like a race horse at the very end of a race.
     Jockey poking and proding and beating it to death
     Ticket holders roaring with their five to ten odds
     Move your bloody ass poem, move it for daddy

And then a pause of self reflection.

Withering down my will to keep things together,
or on the page,
     or even the subject matter,
     which I haven't come to yet
     but will soon.

Like now -

Another blank -

I have an idea,
twirling inside me
     like a ballerina in Swan Lake
     or a bee inside of a soda bottle licking the sweet sugar
     watching the people he could be stinging from inside the glass,
but I'm afraid.

I falter, I fail.

I lie awake at night beating the race horse.

Final Version
Poem # 4
Triolet Form

The Proposal

His hand pushed my hair behind my ear
and I just stood
trembling when he came near.
His hand pushed my hair behind my ear,
the words thickened with fear,
If only I could.
His hand pushed my hair behind my ear
and I just stood.

Version # 2
Poem # 3

At a Campus Job, at an Interview

I am at work interviewing freshmen
Sweating like thawing meat in their stiff collared shirts,
In my office, where my boss sits in his own cubicle
Listening. I am explaining my current job
Of arranging the staff into teams. It is day.
Overhead the sky’s white paint smears
The sun. The freshman hang on my words
Waiting for me to say Anything
About their Job, the way your mother, when
You are talking, listens for the words Marriage.

“Your qualifications match up like peanut butter and jelly,”
I say while noticing the staplers on the desk
Crammed into its metallic shell, the sharp paperclips
Waiting to clip onto paper. “Although,” I continue, “I see
That you could one day replace me, in this job, and you
Could one day be interviewing freshmen staring at a stapler
Talking about the attractiveness of your qualifications.”
They stare blankly because they have no idea what
I am talking about, and I, staring at office equipment
Have thought of a title for my next poem and arranged
The freshman, in my head, by color.

And now the stapler has attacked the freshmen
While I explain the requirements of a white button- down
Shirt and black pants, attaching their resumes to their
Cover letters, and all I hear is “Can’t wait to start” while
I float above their heads trying to figure out what they would
Look like in hats. And one of them, after shaking my
Hand, tells me, “get out, I’m taking your job.”

Version #1
Poem #3
Bovard Auditorium

At Work at an Interview

I am at work giving an interview
To the young freshman sweating like thawing meat
In their stiff collard shirts; in my office,
Where my own boss sits in his cubicle
Listening. I am exploring my current job
of bringing the staff together scoally. It is day.
Overhead the sky's white paint smears
The sun, the students break themselves
With their backbacks, and the freshman break
Waiting for me to say Anything
About the Job, the way your mother, when
You are talking, listens for the words Marriage.

"Your qualifactions match up like peanut butter and jelly,"
I say while noticing the stapler on the desk
Crammed into its metallic shell, the sharp paperclips
Waiting to attach paper. "Although," I continue, "I see
That you could one day replace me, in this job, and what was
Once a young freshman could then be a stapler talking about
The attractiveness of your qualifications. And that's okay.
E.M. Forestor said the world is all panic and emptiness, but I have panic
And especially emptiness. If you want anxiety go to the library, because this job
Has no intention of being stressful, it is perhaps one
Of the few jobs in the world that is not empty.

And yet, I am a pessimist when it comes to this interview
And the qualifications, because with every freshman
Even grocery shopping seems the pinnacle of life
And there is no path so predictable than to view this job as the best you every had."
And just as I am finishing my interview, here
Is the line on the page that says hire
And one of the freshman says to me, "Actually,
I could care less about this job. Get out of your office.
I'm taking over.

Version # 4 - Final Version
Poem # 3
The Strawberry Facts Page

The Strawberry

The seam pulses over the rich sweet mesocarp
barely holding its seed buttons together. The strawberry
waits to be torn open. Beneath the splattered blanket of night
covered with white droplets, small hands exploring the fields for fruit
stain their small hands scarlet biting into the red jewels.
The same fruit's color slightly fades beneath the market's flourence,
its shape shrinking under each shopper's exploring hands.
But soon the strawberry, becoming just a prop in a love story,
will nourish hungry mouths starving for other lips. The berry's
own skin smeared with whipped cream and dipped in fine wine
is cut into with one bite, slowly dripping onto lips and chin.

Version # 3
Poem # 3
California Strawberry Commission
California Strawberry Festival

The Strawberry

The seam pulses over the rich sweet mesocarp
barely holding its seed buttons together. The strawberry
waits to be torn open. Beneath the splattered blanket of night
covered with white droplets, small hands explore the fields
staing their hands scarlet biting into the red abeyance.
The same fruit's color slightly fades underneath the market
flourescent, its shape shrinking with each shopper's exploring hands.
But soon the strawberry, becoming just a prop, will nourish
hungry mouths starving for other lips. Their red skin
smeared with whip cream and dipped in fine wine is cut into
with one bite, slowly dripping onto lips and chin.

Version # 2
Poem # 3
The Strawberry Pop-Tart Blow-Torches

The Strawberry

The seam pulsates over the rich sweet juice
barely holding its seed buttons together; the strawberry
waits to be torn open. Underneath nightly cover
the youngest on the farm race through the rows
stealing the secret treasure staining their small hands
scarlet. The same fruit's color slightly fades superimposed
by the market's lighsts, shrinking with each shoppers
exploring hands. The strawberry will soon nourish
these hungry mouths starving for other lips with red skin
smeared with whipped cream dipped in fine wine
lavished underneath the moon. One bite piercing the skin
releasing the blood slowly onto lips and chin.

Version #1
Poem # 3
Hummingbirds, Ruth Stone

The Strawberry

The seam pulsates over the rich sweet juice
Barely holding its seed buttons together, the strawberry
Waits to be torn open. Underneath nightly cover
When the youngest on the farm race through the rows
Mischievously stealing the secret treasures staining
Thier small hands scarlet. The fruit's color slightly faces
Superimposed by the supermarket's lights, shrinking
Beneath the sneeze guard. With each hand
Grazing over their supple texture it loosens the pressure,
But when called to entertain the strawberry rises again
To nourish hungry mouths starving for other lips smeared
With whipped cream evening dresses bathes in fine wine
Lavished underneath the moon. But their volumptuous skin
Erupts with joy when those with bushy tails steal their hearts
Releasing the blood slowly onto fur and leaking some
Onto the ground.

Version # 4 - Final Version
Poem #2
LA Public Art

My Kinda' Man

I travel down your 10 Freeway
rolling the window down,
tracing the telephone wires.
Coasting along your deserted streets
your air spills through my air
and your fingers spread across my back like wings.

My fingers carress your battle scars,
Riot remnants.
You've seen the worst in people,
yet your starlit scars continues
stretching your arms as far as you can.

But your pocker face won't work with me
seeing the beauty of you,
your landscapes glowing
under a California sun.
Cruising along your arteries
I wish to hear your heart beat, my LA.

Version # 3
Poem #2
The LA Riots
10 Freeway

My Kinda' Man

I travel down your 10 Freeway
rolling the window down,
tracing the telephone wires.
Coasting your deserted streets
your air spills through my hair
and your fingers spread acorss my back like wings.

My fingers caress your battle scars,
Riot remnants.
You've seen the worst in people ,
yet your starlit smile continues
stretching your arms as far as you can
hiding the worst inside.

But your poker face won't work with me
seeing the beauty of you,
Your landscape glowing
under a California sun.
Cruising along your arteries
I wisher to hear your heart beat L.A.

Version #2
Poem #2
Los Angeles

My Kinda' Man

I travel down your 10 Freeway
rolling the window down,
tracing the telephone wires.
Coasting along your deserted streets
your air spills through my hair
and your fingers spread across my back like wings.

My fingers caress your battle scars,
riot remnants.
You've seen the worst in people,
yet your starlit smile continues
stretching your arms as far as you can
keeping it all inside.

But your poker face wont work with me
seeing the beauty of it,
your landscapes glowing
under a California sun.
Cruising toward your chest
I wish to hear your heart beat L.A.

Version #1
Poem #2
Shampoo, Elizabeth Bishop

My Kinda' Man

Glitz and glamour wallpaper my dirty man
Suspended with injections of anesthetic Indian mist
Plastic towers guard with wide sumptuous smiles
Loading zone only for your high end classy cramped cafes.

My feet drag limp along your sales floor
Breaking the dangling plastic clothes hangers
With my clobbering body dance
Swollen figners sensuously stroking your linen, polyester, rayon
Behind my dark glasses sometimes you deceive me
You make me more...more...more
     Than I am

Yet I travel down your 10 Freeway
Rolling the windows down
Tracing the telephone wires and breaks in the yellow dividing line
Letting your air spill through my hair
And your fingers spread across my back like wings

Version #3 - Final Version
Poem #1
17th Century Gravestones

All the Names

I know he thinks I wish her here
while throwing back to earth
     the leaves
he's torn and ripped to shreds
wandering for hours - -

my son lost among the stones
watching my name repeat - -
placed here
     and there
          and round about
a sea of deathly names.

he shoutsI'm lost!
I walk in fog.
Here she lies, but it's not her
my feet can go no more. 

his toy pulled by it's ears is gone.
He dragged it everywhere,
greeting all who came to see
a smile that never changed.

Version #2
Poem #1

All the Names

I know he thinks I wish her here
while throwing back to earth
      the leaves
he tears and rips to shreds
wandering around for hours

that son of mine lost among the stones
watching my name repeat
placed here
     and there
          and round about
a sea of deathly names

he shouts why now to loos my step?
I'm lost, I walk in fog
here she lies, but it's not her


his toy pulled by its ears is gone
he dragged it everywhere
greeting all who came to see
a smile that never changed

that sone of mine lost admist his life
watching his ills repeat
placed here
     and there
          and round about
a sea or regretful songs

with burden laid he shuffles back
holding his breath, inhale,
so souls don't make his heart a home
and leaves the dead in peace

Version #1
Poem #1
I heard a fly buzz when I died, Emily Dickinson

I know he thinks - I wish here here -

I know he thinks - I wish here -
While thowing back to Earth
The Leaves - he tears and rips to shreds -
Wandering around for hours -

He cries why now - to loose my Step -
I'm Left - I walk in Fog -
And here she lies - but it's not Her -
I place my flowers down -

With Burden laid he shuffles back -
He holds his breathe - Inhale -
So Souls don't make his Heart a Home -
And leaves the Dead in Peace -