When I was asked to write a poem about owls
all I could come up with was the old man
following me home from the Erotica reading.
Eyes like espresso beans. Sidewalks glazed
with a trail of street light and women
in pulled petticoats opening maps
resembling their placentas in ruin.
While the man from Mexico city swirls to night
shadow like white gas I think,
why couldn’t he be the Frenchman from the night before
who spoke metaphysically about my physical body.
If so, I’d be a ball of dough walking backwards
into his trousers, pushing past the playground
teetering back and forth on jungle equipment.
Alas, I’m stuck with the albino bald eagle
flying into the crag my of my back.
My trouble is this:
These nights just go on and on and on and on…
Falling into dust and corns has become
my rinse and spit continuum
