TUNNELS

 Tunnel #1 (vegetable mineral emergency) At five a.m. vegetables are goingto be delivered but no market destination yet.My stomach sags with old food in this long daytrip from yesterday’s nightmare to this recoveryyour mother signs with anonymity. These wrinkles on the face are nothingbut fattening asparagus wired to my brain’sstreet map of indeterminacy. Visible horizon glowing my hair, to be grey and still; I hopeI care for another season. This tunnel caresso much about mobility and personal crises. It does. It’s the reason why we deliverdried oreganos or life and death safely frompoint to point, why in express we smell home. I stay alive though, sensing velocityas an ambulance would in a dream—brisk, accidental. Remember the first timeyour little bones cried for milk? The turquoise light I detest are eyes, the remaining light so imperial to touch basethe remaining skin of distance, my a

 It’s all right.That open window to your precedents,once it tumbles downafter shaking the earth’s disease,I’ll parry for youthe brisk blow of emotionsin the lateness of the world. I hurry home as thoughyou are there blinking with your fist.The night sabotaged by your fears,your fantasy castlebuilt upon my brain,your kindnessthe self-portrait of silk. Even what was beyondKinsale was recastin your dream’s silhouette;you gave the towncolourful wings winnowingover hills and harbours,its vibrant history a mouthand a howl,its ancient spirit your new meadso you can float acrossthe tops of pubs contemplatingthe signs of true love.                       

 If dad could turn into a feather furor,under the meltingsun stares cauterized by the yester-letters of history, my dad would still be the longuh-oh soundof all untrodden wetlands warbling for a mother roost. And now the dumaras3 conquer this land, what the heck,what the quack! What aches the space? I wish dad were here tilling the nounsof greater yolked fellows:uninterpreted swamps and Mt. Arayat. Birdwatchers bird-watchingunder the rambutan tree— and then the beast of history,my dad after some crumbs of memory.                           

 that pale patience of yours, oh, I could drive myselfcrazy from this observation of condominiums to Maine,old and bony Maine. What’s that song you’re guessing?I guess it’s empty passion no groovier than last night’scigs you’ve beautifully lighted for one more china sparksat the counter of 7-Eleven. You know what happensto fat when fingers stay out of love, out of their silveredstillness? Traffic lights, they turn to the eyes of the lawin tripartite colours. It’s safe and subtle, isn’t it?How clever the fat moves in princely prose, orin scripted smoke splitting between your Kerouaclungs. I suppose you’re a movie star, a gorgeoushard rain, a motorcycle of flowering acquaintances. The kitchen sink never dirtied, you never cooked,peeled, dreamt. But you showed me your world.Ashtrayed the day away. That dear fat on your lip,I loved it and I wrestled with the night pretendingit’s already 2:30 AM; that no creature of the streetswould dare say

 O your smile carousel of greenGrass tops reach the skyO your smile breezes cleanOf sensanity of I know whyIt’s amazing how lifeGrinds with the teeth of timeIt’s amazing how headRolls and no one knowsHow to turf and fallFlaming words extra timeIn love with youStill and again shootsMy flock misses you