Things About to Disappear

Things are vanishing.

It happens while I sleep.

I wake mumbling some half-formed

phrase from a lingering dream

whose images separate and dissolve.

too quickly. The dream is gone

by the time my feet touch the cold floor.

At the lavatory I face down

the scarecrow in the mirror.

I always seem to blink first. He

only smiles if I do.

So here's my morning quirk. I

hoard marbles in a Crown Royal sack,

purple cats-eyes tucked like jewels

on the closet's top shelf

under the ruckus of winter clothing. Each

morning I toss a marble in the pond.

It scares the beejesus out of the koi, those

shivery pomegranate shadows in the murk

do not appreciate my gifts. I guess one

man's amethyst is another

fish's bomb ball. Birds like me, though.

I scatter day-old pizza crusts on the

fresh-cut lawn. Something for them

to peck at.

There's a girl at the gym. I see

her almost every day. Something

is wrong with her complexion but

her smile is radiant. We carefully

ignore each other.

Evenings are best, that

hour after sunset when arms

of flagging sunlight reach up

to the clouds with orchid

and mulberry crayons

coloring outside the lines.

I watch until it hurts.

The colors vanish

minute by darling minute

and the slow lamplighter

comes calling.

Donny Davis, September 2007

The Waltz

he danced in the park, in the moonlight, all alone,

a waltz in the moonlight, in the park, on the lawn,

we watched from a parkbench, watched

him dance in the moonlight, this woman,

who will never be my lover, and I,

we watched as he danced in the park, on the lawn,

with his arms held cradling, in the moonlight,

a shadow, he waltzed on the lawn, all alone, while we

watched from our parkbench, not-my-lover and I,

with his chin to the starlight and his eyes half-closed,

he danced in the moonlight, he waltzed in the park

as we watched from the shadows, he, up-two-three,

turn-two-three, waltzed with his noone, while

we watched him together, this woman and I,

back-two-three, swing-two-three, enchanted

by the dancing, we watched as he waltzed,

a man and his shadow, in the moonlight,

in the starlight, in the park

on the lawn.

Donny Davis, August 2007

The Stone in the Coat

Such a ho-hum word, "mad" and you

tossed it about so casually on social occasions

"Back when I was mad". I can see you,

flibberti-gibbet, with your Bloomsbury circle,

your sharp nose canted in mild deference,

those intelligent eyes opaque and quivering,

that coquettish smile and purling cigarette,

"Back when I was mad". Everyone laughs.

It is the stone in the coat that chills me.

Ten days before, you came home soaking wet.

This time, as you pulled on your coat,

you knew the stone was required.

'Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again'.

you wrote. Oh, you regent of spin, pucker, and pout,

of the stream of words on which we sail and the music

that makes a masterpiece of a mark on the wall,

was that the best you could do?

As you chose the proper stone with the proper heft

I wonder if you rolled with your blessed tongue these words

you wrote to Leonard and if you judged also their heft:

"I can't fight it any longer". To me that sounds more like it.

And as you worried the stone into your pocket,

(how large was the pocket, anyway?) and brushed

the stone's grit from your palm, and stepped into the river,

felt it's cold tug upon your ankles then your knees,

felt the weight of the stone in the coat,

did you think it would work, that closing

recollection of past joy meant to soothe him:

I don't think two people could have been

happier than we have been.

Donny Davis, July 2007

The Secret Words

fly, butterfly, fly

all the way to india

find the secret words

I left my boots on the doorstep

overnight. When I woke

they were covered with blue mold.

scurry, lizard, scurry

through a crack in the world

all the way to china

find the secret words

I left a skiglove on the rooftop

overnight. When I woke

it held a sandalwood fan.

swim, damselfish, swim

through the panama canal

past the virgin islands

all the way to england

find the secret words

I left my tophat on the windowsill

overnight. When I woke

it was full of lovesongs

fly, butterfly, fly

all the way to india

find for me the secret words.

Donny Davis, August 2007

The Secret

next wednesday

there will be a meeting

of the Dull Men's Club

and I'll be there--

in fact, I've been made

Sergeant-at-Arms.

I'm the one

who guarantees

that Robert's Rules of Order

are conformed to in the nth degree

and if one dull man, should,

for instance, clamor to discuss

benches when the topic is

standing in line

it is my voice,

strident yet undismayed,

that cuts him to the quick

and permits discussion

to continue unabated

on standing in line.

But I have a secret.

I found a feather,

shaped like a nipple

and soft as a kitten.

It appeared at a glance,

a boring enough shade

of black, and I collected

it without a thought.

But as I sat in my yard

counting the bricks in the

brickpile next door

I mindlessly stroked my cheek

with that light feather and

realized that it was not

merely soft, but

mellifluous.

Startled, astonished,

even agitated and disturbed,

I investigated more closely

and discovered that

what I assumed

safely black was

in truth subtlely

iridescent.

Donny Davis, September 2007

The Robin's Egg

A straw at a time, that's how her snug nest

is made. Given patience and space you might

watch in a day sixty trips without rest,

away to an offbeat gathering site,

back to the swelling nest, the single twig

held in her beak guided by her forest

instinct to its station. A playful sprig

of cellophane adorns this robin's nest.

In June the eggs are laid. This morning I

wake to find, spattered on the patio,

a bit of baked sun in a jigsaw sky.

If she's counted, or judged the ratio

of egg to nest and found it lacking, she

wastes no breath regretting it (unlike me).

Donny Davis, June 2007

The Pisces of her Sulk and her Smile

She says, "I am
a wedged orange on a blue china saucer
balanced on a gloved hand."

She says this as her limousine whirls
the corner of Seventh Avenue and Oakridge.

I spilled my green tea
(lemon-cactus flower with natural flavoring)
on her white chiffon blouse and she sulked

Until I said, "Your eyes
are like burning chocolates"

Donny Davis, June 2007

The Hot Bath

We poets abhor the empty page, we

cleave to simplicity in difficult times, and

when the mind is dry of ideas, when the well

stinks of sulphur and the bucket leaks, we

poets often find there is nothing better than

the forbidden luxury of a hot bath on a warm

afternoon, and so it is that I draw my bath warm

as blood, step into the blood-warm water

and stand a moment to let my feet, my ankles,

and my lower calves adjust, then lower

my body cell by quivering cell, trembling,

(my mind also quivering and trembling) into

the blood-warm water till body and mind

stop quivering and are pacified and my skin

cells go "aah" and with that behind me I turn

to the task at hand which is, in honor of

Marie Line, to think lofty thoughts, to lift

my poor mind from it's treasonous gutter

to that exalted rooftop hers prefers, to think

of Nietzsche and Sartre, to meditate upon

being, nothingness and existential angst

but all I manage is to mouth silently, while

staring at my toes which I notice I am wiggling,

"there is nothing existential in being angstness"

and then I think of that night some other french

philosopher told Sartre over dinner that if he

were an existentialist he could make philosophy

of a glass of water and why I wonder did he

find that so blasted fascinating that he changed

his career and wrote the most impenetrable

book ever translated into english, but then I begin

to lather myself with blue liquid body soap and I

wonder if liquid soap is superior to oldstyle cakes

and did I buy this particular brand of liquid soap

simply because it promised, right there on the label,

"the ultimate clean" and then I wish I had made it a

bubble-bath and I wonder if the Mr. Bubble t-shirt I

ordered online yesterday will arrive tomorrow as

promised or if perhaps I should have gone the extra

mile and actually purchased a box of Mr. Bubble

and sent in the preprinted form shoved in the box

among the bubble grains, just to be sure,

and for all I know they do give preference

to actual Mr. Bubble consumers over silly

poets who order the t-shirt online and I did

pause to wonder what if I were a clerk at

the Mr. Bubble warehouse would I give

preference to preprinted forms over online

orders, even if I were instructed by the

highest of the high in upper management,

by Mr. Bubble himself, even, and not merely

some cranky middle-aged thorn in stylish glasses

stressed out himself by some recent missive

from the highest of the high, perhaps Mr. Bubble

himself, demanding once again greater efficiency

and quicker shipping of Mr. Bubble t-shirts, and why

I wonder, were the t-shirts available only in white,

why not cyana or vermillion or at least blue or purple,

why must Mr. Bubble be the Henry Ford of logo

t-shirts, and only then, as I notice a stream

of light that strays through the curtain onto my

stomach and wonder if she (not Marie Line,

though yes, her too, now that you mention it)

would find me too repulsive if she saw me lying

in the bath this sunny afternoon, only then

do I remember (and it is too late for the bathwater

has cooled) that I intended to think of Nietzsche

or Sartre or maybe harmless old Emmanuel Kant.

The Hot Bath

We poets abhor the empty page, we

cleave to simplicity in difficult times, and

when the mind is dry of ideas, when the well

stinks of sulphur and the bucket leaks, we

poets often find there is nothing better than

the forbidden luxury of a hot bath on a warm

afternoon, and so it is that I draw my bath warm

as blood, step into the blood-warm water

and stand a moment to let my feet, my ankles,

and my lower calves adjust, then lower

my body cell by quivering cell, trembling,

(my mind also quivering and trembling) into

the blood-warm water till body and mind

stop quivering and are pacified and my skin

cells go "aah" and with that behind me I turn

to the task at hand which is, in honor of

Marie Line, to think lofty thoughts, to lift

my poor mind from it's treasonous gutter

to that exalted rooftop hers prefers, to think

of Nietzsche and Sartre, to meditate upon

being, nothingness and existential angst

but all I manage is to mouth silently, while

staring at my toes which I notice I am wiggling,

"there is nothing existential in being angstness"

and then I think of that night some other french

philosopher told Sartre over dinner that if he

were an existentialist he could make philosophy

of a glass of water and why I wonder did he

find that so blasted fascinating that he changed

his career and wrote the most impenetrable

book ever translated into english, but then I begin

to lather myself with blue liquid body soap and I

wonder if liquid soap is superior to oldstyle cakes

and did I buy this particular brand of liquid soap

simply because it promised, right there on the label,

"the ultimate clean" and then I wish I had made it a

bubble-bath and I wonder if the Mr. Bubble t-shirt I

ordered online yesterday will arrive tomorrow as

promised or if perhaps I should have gone the extra

mile and actually purchased a box of Mr. Bubble

and sent in the preprinted form shoved in the box

among the bubble grains, just to be sure,

and for all I know they do give preference

to actual Mr. Bubble consumers over silly

poets who order the t-shirt online and I did

pause to wonder what if I were a clerk at

the Mr. Bubble warehouse would I give

preference to preprinted forms over online

orders, even if I were instructed by the

highest of the high in upper management,

by Mr. Bubble himself, even, and not merely

some cranky middle-aged thorn in stylish glasses

stressed out himself by some recent missive

from the highest of the high, perhaps Mr. Bubble

himself, demanding once again greater efficiency

and quicker shipping of Mr. Bubble t-shirts, and why

I wonder, were the t-shirts available only in white,

why not cyana or vermillion or at least blue or purple,

why must Mr. Bubble be the Henry Ford of logo

t-shirts, and only then, as I notice a stream

of light that strays through the curtain onto my

stomach and wonder if she (not Marie Line,

though yes, her too, now that you mention it)

would find me too repulsive if she saw me lying

in the bath this sunny afternoon, only then

do I remember (and it is too late for the bathwater

has cooled) that I intended to think of Nietzsche

or Sartre or maybe harmless old Emmanuel Kant.

The Hot Bath

We poets abhor the empty page, we

cleave to simplicity in difficult times, and

when the mind is dry of ideas, when the well

stinks of sulphur and the bucket leaks, we

poets often find there is nothing better than

the forbidden luxury of a hot bath on a warm

afternoon, and so it is that I draw my bath warm

as blood, step into the blood-warm water

and stand a moment to let my feet, my ankles,

and my lower calves adjust, then lower

my body cell by quivering cell, trembling,

(my mind also quivering and trembling) into

the blood-warm water till body and mind

stop quivering and are pacified and my skin

cells go "aah" and with that behind me I turn

to the task at hand which is, in honor of

Marie Line, to think lofty thoughts, to lift

my poor mind from it's treasonous gutter

to that exalted rooftop hers prefers, to think

of Nietzsche and Sartre, to meditate upon

being, nothingness and existential angst

but all I manage is to mouth silently, while

staring at my toes which I notice I am wiggling,

"there is nothing existential in being angstness"

and then I think of that night some other french

philosopher told Sartre over dinner that if he

were an existentialist he could make philosophy

of a glass of water and why I wonder did he

find that so blasted fascinating that he changed

his career and wrote the most impenetrable

book ever translated into english, but then I begin

to lather myself with blue liquid body soap and I

wonder if liquid soap is superior to oldstyle cakes

and did I buy this particular brand of liquid soap

simply because it promised, right there on the label,

"the ultimate clean" and then I wish I had made it a

bubble-bath and I wonder if the Mr. Bubble t-shirt I

ordered online yesterday will arrive tomorrow as

promised or if perhaps I should have gone the extra

mile and actually purchased a box of Mr. Bubble

and sent in the preprinted form shoved in the box

among the bubble grains, just to be sure,

and for all I know they do give preference

to actual Mr. Bubble consumers over silly

poets who order the t-shirt online and I did

pause to wonder what if I were a clerk at

the Mr. Bubble warehouse would I give

preference to preprinted forms over online

orders, even if I were instructed by the

highest of the high in upper management,

by Mr. Bubble himself, even, and not merely

some cranky middle-aged thorn in stylish glasses

stressed out himself by some recent missive

from the highest of the high, perhaps Mr. Bubble

himself, demanding once again greater efficiency

and quicker shipping of Mr. Bubble t-shirts, and why

I wonder, were the t-shirts available only in white,

why not cyana or vermillion or at least blue or purple,

why must Mr. Bubble be the Henry Ford of logo

t-shirts, and only then, as I notice a stream

of light that strays through the curtain onto my

stomach and wonder if she (not Marie Line,

though yes, her too, now that you mention it)

would find me too repulsive if she saw me lying

in the bath this sunny afternoon, only then

do I remember (and it is too late for the bathwater

has cooled) that I intended to think of Nietzsche

or Sartre or maybe harmless old Emmanuel Kant.

The Gravity Well

Seven months of no rain and his ranch
drifts on the wind into water-starved trees,
drifts on the wind across the water-starved hills.
His truck-garden is sick. His sheep
have no vigor. They suck
the mud from a vanished pond. He walks
his land with an unbent divining rod,
morning to night, morning to night,
oat husk morning to coal dust night.

But now is a day like any other: the dry soil flies
across the hills, the garden withers, the sheep thirst
at noon. His divining rod bends. It bends, it bends,
his hands, his forearms, his shoulders clench,
the rod's tip dips with unbearable longing,
the rod's tip tugs till he stumbles and tumbles
head over heels down a gully to a dried-up stream.

Shivering as he digs, he digs and digs furiously,
shovelfuls and shovelfuls of dust tossed
in clouds and piles and piles and clouds,
three feet, eight feet, sixteen feet deep,
he digs and digs furiously, shivering as he digs.

Something moves.
Beneath a conclusive crust of dry sediment
something moves.

He raises the shovel for the coup de grace
a dustcake mask on his face and clothes
and now and now, "oh god dare not forsake me,
give me life, give me life-giving water, give me water,
give me life", the shovel falls with all his force, yes force
yes force is what he gets. A vortex spins,

whirls and spins out of the hole; a tornado, a maelstrom,
a cyclone of gyrating energy, spinning gravity, whirling energetic
gravity that hauls, pulls, drags, till the haul, the pull, the drag
sucks things of all shapes and sizes into that yawning abyss:
sheep, withered corn stalks, barren berry bushes
sucked into the abyss, planks of wood from his barn
torn to splinters and sucked into the abyss. He clings
for life to the trunk of a tree, the roots of the tree cling
for life to the earth and inch by inch are hauled from the earth.

The sucking maw hauls with unbearable longing.

But wait.
A granite chunk,
dislodged from the gully's bank,
larger by a diametric foot than the well,
rolls onto the well and seals it.
The earth is still. The wind is still.
Dust settles in piles

and clouds

the underground stream
discovered by the boulder's surge.

Donny Davis, July 2007

The Girl and the Butterfly

a butterfly rides on her fingertip;

slowly she glides by a stream, past foxglove

and iceland poppies, a passenger ship

captained with focus and helpless with love.

Myths are made of less. Her bare foot must probe

the bare earth with each step lest she waver

so he flies again, lest the forest's robe

of mantilla sky reclaims his favor.

Donny Davis, June 2007

The Foxy Minister and the Apocryphal Communion

She extends to me that morsel of bread,

the body, and to my indulgent tongue

reaches near and nearer. I've never said

I desired grace -- though I'm no longer young

I cry not for salvation but for that

apple I see now in place of bread, held

in her sublime hand, the hand a placemat

for the body. It's her body I hold

in my heart, my unoriginal sin

is craving, for communion, for the taste

of the body whose fine hand now extends

the body to my tongue. Wafers of toast

are but tasteless bread and bear no more grace

for me than now shows in her sober face.

Donny Davis, August 2007

The Acorn

I sleep with my door ajar so

the ghost of Lao Tzu can slip

inside and inhabit my dreams

An old woman at the bus stop

was chewing acorns.

How does that taste?

"Foul" she says, spitting

a half-chewed acorn at my feet.

"but

I remember when

I was something

the wind blew through.

Acorns are not so bad."

Tonight as I slip between

my cool, clean sheets,

and read a poem before

I turn out the lamp,

as I sigh in the cool,

clean darkness,

I remember how

this afternoon

a hummingbird

green as a june bug shell

sat on the sweetgum tree

and winked

(I swear he did)

I remember also

that other afternoon,

how I ate an acorn

to see if it would

really stop

the wind.

Donny Davis, September 2007

ted kaczynsky's lovesong

the broken sink needs fixing, dammit,

that drip, drip, drip is human dignity

abandoning ship down the foul drain

gutter main of the corporate master's

thyroid vein, staining the grass black

with the oil-track artifacts of blind ungoverned

greed and the slow stampede of regression

and repression, the source of depression.

(If the whore in the boardroom or

the whore in congress or the whore in the pulpit or

for that matter the whore in the pew said

gimme your balls you'd say here's my balls and

what variety of platter would you like my

balls served on, china, silver or embossed

leather?

I'm sick to death of your

feminism and your causism and your homosexualism

and your low self-esteem)

I hear the machines in the

middle of the night, forthright they clink,

outright they clank, they crank my tractor

loud, they mutter like a theif, a commander

in-cheif with a muttering, fluttering, stuttering

tongue, when all we need is a well-made bomb

mailed to the right sonuvabitch and we'll have

our revolution, our solution, our incandescent

absolution...

and halt, once and for all, this devolution

of mankind.

Donny Davis, August 2007

Speaking of Knowing

I could tell you I know
landscapes and islands
the coldness of swimming
between them, your stars,
the anguish of counting
your stars in your black night.
all these things –
the sound of no constellations.

I could tell you I know
the taste of ripe cantaloupe
and virgin strawberries
a Strativarius' strings purling
in winter as light snow falls,
the anguish of being
frozen by heat
all these things–
the sound of no footsteps.

If I told you I know, you'd nod,
and make an affable fuss

while the kneetap reflex
slaps shut a trapdoor
inside your prism
inside the colors you make
when you smile and when you cry
and you want to shout
but will not shout
"Don't lie to me,"

What I can say is that distance
is a shade of closeness
that rivers exist and pull and if we had a raft
we could ride from one continent to another,
without lifting an oar or pausing to speak.

I can say there is such a raft and such a river,
that there are constellations and footsteps
yet unheard.

Southern Cross

Across Down

1. Proximate cause of a 1. Gossamer wall between
shipwreck you and I
7. Text egalitarian 2. The water of sunlight
11. The dull ache in Cyrano's 3. Shipseye view of a
throat lurking whale
16. Sound of two ships passing 4. What the heron said
in the night to the fly
23. Beaurocratic sophism 5. Brass stain on a shiprail
25. Perfume prism 6. When love goes
32. The junction of bow and stern 12. Statement of Ink (v. pl.)
37. That moment of clarity after 35. Quitting the fort
making love 36. Synonym for loneliness
43. Filibustering chicken 43. The only long swim
44. Active mold on a sunken 46. Shakespeare's bald spot
lockbox 48. The first mate's teenage
49. Child of demitasse crush returned at Xmas
57. Oceangoing acre 50. Taste of a bruise
61. Why the west 66. Onyx phalanx
63. What is sufficient 67. Androgynous ship part
70. Who are old and winged 68. Feel of a heartbeat
75. Where the captain's widow against your ear
sang

Donny Davis, September 2007

Serenity

aside from the lunatic german shepherd,
the episodic kerthunk of loaders
at a concrete manufactury,
the screel of my neighbor's saw,
the bearish gnarr of cars and motorcycles,
the rattle, clatter, shatter, smash of passing trains,
the protestations of geese,
the shivaree of cicadas,
and the discordant symphony of my own thought,

it is really very quiet here

Rules of Flight

Daedelus,

master craftsman,

fashioned the wings

with inferior wax,

intending strictly

utilitarian flight,

one quick waft

across the Aegean

to freedom.

He wept as

Icarus daubed

feathers to frame

in natural rows,

the shallow

feathers then

the heavy ones.

He knew

already.

So they flew,

gods for an hour,

two bodies,

two minds,

one being,

windborne,

sailing, one

mind focused

on the far shore

and the end

of heartache,

one mind glorying

in the sky's blue

mercy. Not so

low, not so high,

stay with me.

Oh,

child

Icarus.

I wanted to

touch the sun,

too.

Donny Davis, September, 2007

Rescue

If insanity could be bottled and sold

from kiosks, like colas and beer,

you would have some to sell, my friend.

Take my hand, now, stop stamping so.

The river down there is all

cold strength, all pitiless virtue,

like any natural thing. It doesn't want you.

All that's occurred is god

got drunk -- god, in his cups,

conceived this cold fusion of sun and tears,

this absurdly improbable sequential symmetry

that designed us, you and I, flinging

us, together, here, today, you

trembling so wildly. Take my hand, now,

stop staring so. Leave the river be.

Donny Davis, June 2007

Penicillin for Lexical Laryngitis

I cannot write. Though I see

the permutations of sunlight I feel

only the weight of my shivering

mind.

Let us make a boat then,

a canoe. Loosed from its mooring,

it drifts downriver, lurches

here and there, drawn by eddies,

jostled by rocks, rocked by currents.

If painted by van Gogh the green river

would play-act a bunched carpet of turf.

Monet would make its colors

swim like rainbow trout.

Magritte would vanish the river and let

the canoe stroll on earthbound sky.

We have permission to imagine it

however we choose.

Then let it be a river in Central America

so that it may have a gorgeous name,

say, the Rio Grande de Matagalpa.

Let our canoe drift through the highlands

along the Darien and Huapi mountains

into the lowland rainforest.

But It is too quiet now. There is no life in our

painting. Let the trees be filled with

insects and birds, let their discordant

choir accompany our canoe as it

vagabonds down the Matagalpa.

A Zimbabweyan juju man hears the choir,

eyes the canoe. He is baffled. He does

not belong here. He scoops water in

his hands, sees tiny creatures scurryswim

away, splashes the water on his face.

(But this is silly. Why bother the juju man.)

We leave him, curious, unafraid, watching

our canoe, wondering if he should swim to it

but choosing to squat on the bank and let it pass.

A mile away, our canoe swirls to shore and catches

in a dam of fallen limbs beneath a tree branch.

On the branch a kinkajou sleeps.

(I call her kinkajou but you may know her as

cat-monkey)

Let's wake her up. The nose of our canoe is trapped

in the sticks of the makeweight dam, but the river

rolls the stern against a hollow rock.

Back and again the wavelash drums our canoe

against the rock. First softly then

with gathering force the drumbeat grows.

The cat-monkey rouses. Agitated. Perturbed.

She screams. She screams a woman's scream.

Fantastic and freakish she screams like a woman.

Upstream the juju man is startled.

Goosebumps dance on the back of his neck.

Donny Davis, September, 2007

Mud Island

I swim across the slough at sunset,

a snapping turtle latched to my big toe

(I acquired him day before yesterday:

he won't let go till it thunders)

then drag myself, body and turtle,

onto the rocky shelf of Mud Island

(neither muddy nor an island but a promontory

thrust belly-up into the lake's backpocket).

Yesterday I made him suffer in the sun

till his throat swelled and his shell

flaked like dandruff but he just chomped tighter.

Tonight I linger on the shelf and dangle

foot and turtle in the shallows.

I tempt him with minnows, little silver

darters chasing themselves in a watery cloud,

no dice.

I cut a hole in my sleeping bag's bottom

to appease the self-centered bugger.

My foot leaks into the damp air,

the snapper's wet snores

tickle my ankle,

and a thousand snickering stars attest

the continued want of thunder.

Donny Davis, July 2007

Mouse Poem

I am unsure

if sound or movement

alerts me to

you, scuttling like a thief along

the door's other side, a shadow

in the arrow-slit beneath it. I see you now,

gray mouse, poking your thin head

into my room, all simplicity of purpose,

whiskers questioning the air.

There are no crumbs for you , I swept

just this morning. Shoo, go away!

You are the arrogant one, aren't you,

wriggling inside and darting along the wall.

You have but half-a-tail, testament I presume

to some previous arrogance and a farmer's wife,

well, what am I to do with you?

You are quick, but I am quicker.

The great swallowing darkness terrifies you,

no doubt: imprisoned, writhing, suffocating, terrified,

alarmed, dismayed, horrified, hectored, panicked,

(spooked)

how many synonyms are there for the consternation

you must know now? I feel your little heart racing

in my palm. Relax. It is only the gray t-shirt I never

wear. There, see, it's better here in the flower garden

in the shade. You stand a moment, baffled, then

waddle beneath a spreading fern.

Stay away now, arrogant fellow. We have a cat.

Donny Davis, June 2007

lullabye

sleep angel

the way the night creeps heavily across

the day's pleasant furies; the way water

creeps heavily across stones;

sleep precious

the way your lover's arm folds across

you, and you smile; the way his heartbeat

purrs against your shoulderblades

sleep butterfly

the way those childish fantasies discharged across

the years come suddenly alive, and perch

upon your windowledge watching

like cool summer starlight;

sleep angel.

Donny Davis, June 2007

lullabye

sleep angel

the way the night creeps heavily across

the day's pleasant furies; the way water

creeps heavily across stones;

sleep precious

the way your lover's arm folds across

you, and you smile; the way his heartbeat

purrs against your shoulderblades

sleep butterfly

the way those childish fantasies discharged across

the years come suddenly alive, and perch

upon your windowledge watching

like cool summer starlight;

sleep angel.

Donny Davis, June 2007

Lucid Dreaming

Across the rivulet

whose deep clay banks

are heavy with lichens, fern and gypsum,

framed by cypress,

necklaced in liana,

she occurs among the sweetbriars

I planted last fall,

in the sunny spot

where rock, tree and vine converge.

Obscured by leaves and petals,

enigmatic, abstract, complex,

regarding me,

she startles me awake.

Donny Davis, June 2007

Longing

What I maintain is

as imaginary as the waterfall garden
my patio hosts on summer afternoons.

The real waterfall wants to spill into you
endlessly

The real patio is vacant, and carpeted with brown
magnolia leaves.

Donny Davis, June 2007

lavendar snowfall

the slow patient snowfall

of tiny lavender petals

gathers on the brick walk wet

by the same mindless sprinkler

that teases your bare ankles

you look up--

one, two, three, seven, twelve

a gazillion bumble bees

jitterbug among the blossoms

(raceme to raceme)

each raceme a hundred

tiny lavendar petals

each bee evicts a petal

when he scurries

just for you

for your joy

he makes

the slow patient snowfall

Donny Davis, June 2007

Lament of a Blue Collar Poet

While I cobble my pyramids

using granite and slaves

levelling the ground in the Egyptian

sun, dragging leftfooted stones

out of quarries and cutting them

with quartz-sand drills

hauling the dressed stones

with bronze levers and

ten thousand past lives

up linear ramps and spiral ramps

staircase ramps and reversing ramps

interior ramps

orienting the stones

with astrolabe and palm-rib bay

to echo the stars

corbel-vaulting on a colossal scale

the great rooms

dying of thirst and love

you make me feel foolish.

you whisk pyramids out of thin air

and say:

"this pyramid has six corners".

"this pyramid has legs and ran off

to see its uncle"

"this pyramid stands on its head,

leering at Casseiopeia's underpants"

"this pyramid's eye is plucked and tossed

in the Nile. My dollar bill is blind."

"this pyramid was made by a girl

it combs it's hair and

pouts in the mirror"

"this pyramid was made by a boy

it drowned in mud during puberty

and has never been uncovered."

"this pyr m d is uns lv ge ble

it wants imagination and science."

"this pryramid has never been

transformed by a woman"

"this pyramid got drunk and shot

off it's pinkie toe."

"this pyramid smells like einstein's socks"

"this pyramid owns a motorcycle and

parks it in the attic"

"this pyramid devours it's young

they spin sarcophagus cocoons

in it's belly."

"this pyramid had a feud with Pythagorus"

then you whisk away your pyramids again

into the thin air.

Donny Davis, August, 2007

A Candle in the Window

Where your carnival parked last night,

its ferris wheel arched against the stars,

this morning there is nothing:

no trails the caravan cut, no scuffed

grass, no imprint in the sand where

the hawker's booths and the balloon trucks

and the cotton candy vendors rested,

not even emptiness which is a kind of something,

but a deeper sense of vanishing.

We exist here, a village of sorts, in

a liminality between real and imagined.

Music lives in that threshold as do poems,

philosophies and memories, as does love.

Perhaps all friendships are this way.

We straggle here, magicians one and all,

drawn by the sound and the light, the reflection

on this virtual sky of our own looking glass,

with the click of the mouse we say

"I am, here, this is me" and if we choose,

magicians that we are, we say

"Presto, I am gone."

I don't give a fritter about saving the world,

integral spirituality or conscious capitalism.

"If I had a long enough lever and a firm

place to stand I could move the moon"

No such lever exists. There is no such

firm place to stand.

I came because I was lonely. Because I know

loneliness as an ice cube in the veins,

loneliness as a thorn under the fingernail,

loneliness as a tree, on whose broad limbs

I've climbed to watch Jesus pass among

the crowds. Because I know the shades

of loneliness and have carved my initials

in it's trunk.

You came as a gypsy, with caravans

of thought, with embroidered blankets,

jewels formed of colored seeds,

a traveler's dusty feet, a kiosk of

feathered dreamcatchers with witch ball

beads dangling from rawhide strands.

It occurs to me that perhaps you were

lonely too. The Rose of Sharon forms

three blossoms: one white, one coral,

one white with a claret throat. Today

I plucked a blossom of that third color

and set it adrift among the minnows

in the clear spring that meanders

from here to there.

Donny Davis, August 2007

A Candle in the Window

Where your carnival parked last night,

its ferris wheel arched against the stars,

this morning there is nothing:

no trails the caravan cut, no scuffed

grass, no imprint in the sand where

the hawker's booths and the balloon trucks

and the cotton candy vendors rested,

not even emptiness which is a kind of something,

but a deeper sense of vanishing.

We exist here, a village of sorts, in

a liminality between real and imagined.

Music lives in that threshold as do poems,

philosophies and memories, as does love.

Perhaps all friendships are this way.

We straggle here, magicians one and all,

drawn by the sound and the light, the reflection

on this virtual sky of our own looking glass,

with the click of the mouse we say

"I am, here, this is me" and if we choose,

magicians that we are, we say

"Presto, I am gone."

I don't give a fritter about saving the world,

integral spirituality or conscious capitalism.

"If I had a long enough lever and a firm

place to stand I could move the moon"

No such lever exists. There is no such

firm place to stand.

I came because I was lonely. Because I know

loneliness as an ice cube in the veins,

loneliness as a thorn under the fingernail,

loneliness as a tree, on whose broad limbs

I've climbed to watch Jesus pass among

the crowds. Because I know the shades

of loneliness and have carved my initials

in it's trunk.

You came as a gypsy, with caravans

of thought, with embroidered blankets,

jewels formed of colored seeds,

a traveler's dusty feet, a kiosk of

feathered dreamcatchers with witch ball

beads dangling from rawhide strands.

It occurs to me that perhaps you were

lonely too. The Rose of Sharon forms

three blossoms: one white, one coral,

one white with a claret throat. Today

I plucked a blossom of that third color

and set it adrift among the minnows

in the clear spring that meanders

from here to there.

Donny Davis, August 2007

A Candle in the Window

Where your carnival parked last night,

its ferris wheel arched against the stars,

this morning there is nothing:

no trails the caravan cut, no scuffed

grass, no imprint in the sand where

the hawker's booths and the balloon trucks

and the cotton candy vendors rested,

not even emptiness which is a kind of something,

but a deeper sense of vanishing.

We exist here, a village of sorts, in

a liminality between real and imagined.

Music lives in that threshold as do poems,

philosophies and memories, as does love.

Perhaps all friendships are this way.

We straggle here, magicians one and all,

drawn by the sound and the light, the reflection

on this virtual sky of our own looking glass,

with the click of the mouse we say

"I am, here, this is me" and if we choose,

magicians that we are, we say

"Presto, I am gone."

I don't give a fritter about saving the world,

integral spirituality or conscious capitalism.

"If I had a long enough lever and a firm

place to stand I could move the moon"

No such lever exists. There is no such

firm place to stand.

I came because I was lonely. Because I know

loneliness as an ice cube in the veins,

loneliness as a thorn under the fingernail,

loneliness as a tree, on whose broad limbs

I've climbed to watch Jesus pass among

the crowds. Because I know the shades

of loneliness and have carved my initials

in it's trunk.

You came as a gypsy, with caravans

of thought, with embroidered blankets,

jewels formed of colored seeds,

a traveler's dusty feet, a kiosk of

feathered dreamcatchers with witch ball

beads dangling from rawhide strands.

It occurs to me that perhaps you were

lonely too. The Rose of Sharon forms

three blossoms: one white, one coral,

one white with a claret throat. Today

I plucked a blossom of that third color

and set it adrift among the minnows

in the clear spring that meanders

from here to there.

Donny Davis, August 2007

In the Supermarket

As I linger in the produce,

fondling black avocados,

looking for that perfect

avocado, just ripe and not

yet ruined from sitting

in the bin, unchosen too long,

it occurs to me that someone

else in the next aisle might

linger over cereal boxes,

might pick Trix for the kids,

and, reluctantly, Heartsmart

for herself. She might have

thoughts like mine, divagating

thoughts, low-level anxieties over

the state of the economy,

evolving to resentment for

the driver who cut her off

on the way here (what a prick),

then a giggly flit to something

sort of funny someone said

this morning (you had to be there).

It occurs to me that someone else

across the store lingers over milk.

studies, perhaps, the expiry dates,

reaches, perhaps, to the back

of the rows of milk in the milk cooler,

looking for the fresh stuff in the back.

Maybe he feels a little guilty

right now. My cousin's house

burned yesterday and everything

was lost inside, even her purse

even her carkeys. I feel guilty for my

small worries. Maybe this guy spoke

too sharply to his wife, or to his son,

or to his dog, and as he drags that

fresh gallon of milk from the back

milkrow maybe he thinks how

he should buy a small gift:

bath oil for the wife, chocolate

cupcakes for the son,

liver treats for the dog.

Once I grew impatient

at the checkout line. That

large woman slid her EBT card

through the reader and each time

the checker said, "It's still

denied" she pointed, silently,

to an item on the counter,

which the checker removed,

first the chocolate bars, then

the mixed nuts, then sausage,

then the tomato juice.

The checker saw me fidget

and rolled her eyes.

The wordless woman's

cheeks colored.

I select a less-than-perfect

avocado, and dawdle

toward the bakery. A tall

girl in a drab black skirt

is studying the variety

of Vlasic pickles.

Donny Davis, August, 2007

In the Supermarket

As I linger in the produce,

fondling black avocados,

looking for that perfect

avocado, just ripe and not

yet ruined from sitting

in the bin, unchosen too long,

it occurs to me that someone

else in the next aisle might

linger over cereal boxes,

might pick Trix for the kids,

and, reluctantly, Heartsmart

for herself. She might have

thoughts like mine, divagating

thoughts, low-level anxieties over

the state of the economy,

evolving to resentment for

the driver who cut her off

on the way here (what a prick),

then a giggly flit to something

sort of funny someone said

this morning (you had to be there).

It occurs to me that someone else

across the store lingers over milk.

studies, perhaps, the expiry dates,

reaches, perhaps, to the back

of the rows of milk in the milk cooler,

looking for the fresh stuff in the back.

Maybe he feels a little guilty

right now. My cousin's house

burned yesterday and everything

was lost inside, even her purse

even her carkeys. I feel guilty for my

small worries. Maybe this guy spoke

too sharply to his wife, or to his son,

or to his dog, and as he drags that

fresh gallon of milk from the back

milkrow maybe he thinks how

he should buy a small gift:

bath oil for the wife, chocolate

cupcakes for the son,

liver treats for the dog.

Once I grew impatient

at the checkout line. That

large woman slid her EBT card

through the reader and each time

the checker said, "It's still

denied" she pointed, silently,

to an item on the counter,

which the checker removed,

first the chocolate bars, then

the mixed nuts, then sausage,

then the tomato juice.

The checker saw me fidget

and rolled her eyes.

The wordless woman's

cheeks colored.

I select a less-than-perfect

avocado, and dawdle

toward the bakery. A tall

girl in a drab black skirt

is studying the variety

of Vlasic pickles.

Donny Davis, August, 2007

How to Assemble your Glass-Bottom Boat

STEP ONE: Read all instructions carefully. Check to be sure that all materials are present. All required tools are included.

STEP TWO: With back-side panel (A) held in place slide front-side panel (B) into the long- slotted tip of front-back panel (C) taking care that the ends are not flanged or needed.

STEP THREE: Lift side-awkward panel (D) onto back-side panel (A) while gently twisting the gaunt lever of vise (AA) in the rockshaft socket. Do not over-twist.

STEP FOUR: Using the included nutcase roentga fasten front-back panel (C) to kettledrum gasser (KK). Leave hand-tight. Glue right side-awkward panel (E) onto the legitimate kepi dome while taking care that the overfly profiterole is not crumpled. Slide first glass panel into the razed gooves and fasten with superglue (included)

STEP FIVE: Budge the seaworthiness cover screws (XX) into the numskull midge while simultaeously nuzzling the seaworthiness cover shuttlecock (ZZ) and the seaworthiness eyefold into the predrilled bastions . Use the adze (included) to adjust torque if necessary. Slide second glass panel into the exposed bed, while cutotling the underside midge and holding firm the first glass panel. Fasten with rubbersocks (not included) and hinged flytrickles (included).

STEP SIX: Screw on the oarlocks.

Enjoy your glass-bottom boat. Thanks for shopping at Wal-Mart.

CAUTION: Do not stand on side-rail while operating boat. Do not open glass panels while boat is in operation. Do not operate in waters exceeding 210 degrees Fahrenheit (100 degrees Celsius). Do not attempt to breathe while underwater as drowning may occur.

Donny Davis, July 2007

Girl, Alive

(i) Sonnet

The artist smokes and ponders as sunlight

investigates his model. Her posture

is quite good (in front of a sheet pulled tight

on the wall) face veiled in the aperture

made by her arms, the arms doubled over,

elbows to the ceiling, hands entwining

her auburn mane, so alive. Moreover

her arched back is almost redefining

his notion of the sensual woman.

But it's a strain to appear so relaxed

and calm and to retain that. She's undone

now by overdrawn muscles, overtaxed

focus, by the force required to lift one

leg and hold still and serene as limestone.

(ii) Free

A woman's look is a myth made

of her desire and our perception;

take this woman twirling for the camera

across the street, by the courthouse

steps. I watch her from my station here

on a park bench. I'm tossing popcorn

to pigeons and brooding over my own

lost love. To me, she looks altogether

the goddess, I can see her

perched on a rocky precipice

draped in a greek goddess rag,

a greek god's great lasso wrapped round

her waist, now broken free and trailing

into voluminous clouds, her face

light as joy itself, nothing in her aspect

but self-salvation and adoration of the sky.

Look, though, see that sullen fellow leaning

against the lamp post watching her twirl.

He must be the boyfriend

all jealous in his brown boots

and his boyfriend scowl. He detests

the way the photographer admires her,

detests the way she follows those commands,

"Turn now, dip, yes, a little flesh, a little shoulder,

very good, very pretty, up, chest out, fluff

your hair, that's it, that's my girl."

I bet he sees her as

she was this morning,

eyes puffy,

pissed off at him.

Friend

there is a way beauty folds

in and upon itself

the way god's hand folds to make

it's heart line

the way two facing mirrors see each other

with a vase of yellow flowers in between

the thousand reflections

of yellow flowers

are

the way the universe is

(a spatial-temporal origami of things)

when i think of angels now i'll think of you

riding your bicycle

across god's palm

for Lingchao

Donny Davis, July 2007

Desirous

like bourbon spilled on your breasts and lapped
by an eager tongue i was lapped
into your shrewd, sensuous world,

–caged, set free, caught again–

the thin music of your little death ringing still;
stirring me, starving me, crippling me still,
these long hours later.

Donny Davis, June 2007

Conversations with a Cloud

This whisper of light

in hidden eyes

thrills me--

orchid rain-

drop,

sage leaf worry-

stone,

fragile,

whimsical,

logical as

ice

in red tea.

Donny Davis, June 2007

A Thousand Ways (The Aurora Borealis poem)

listen,

the aurora borealis...

(hold that thought)

I would use words in a thousand ways to call you out.

I would try to trick you:

Come quick, three men in trout boots smoking pipes

are flocking your lawn with pink flamingoes

I would coo to you:

I say "how can I play with you and you are in there?"

You say "how can I play with you and you are out there?"

I would shout to you:

Christ, Rapunzel, open the damn door!

I would wax melodramatic:

Your distance is a basin so vast it holds

all my life's tears

I would be sexy:

My fingertip brushes your wet lips,

like so and, ever so lightly, I graze

these shivery places...

I would wane mystical:

In exactly the way that to exist and to not exist are the same;

so to exist with you and to exist without you are the same

cliche:

I'd swim the rivers of the earth to reach

the pools of starlight in your eyes

obtuse:

My neural pathways are stimulated to excessive

negative flux by your proximate yet inaccessible locus

truthful:

I love what little I know of you

I'd use words in a thousand ways to excite you,

intice you, delight you, ignite you, impress you,

caress you, possess you...

undress you

a thousand ways,

to call you out

but listen, listen,

listen,

the aurora borealis

makes no sound.

Donny Davis, June 2007

Cinquains

1

Aloofish

hanging
upside down on
the monkey-bars her hair
spills like mocha joe and her eyes
tattle

2

Cat

waiting,
as the dark rubs
against me, I am crouched
on your doorstep in your deepest
shadow

3

Kind thoughts
like sun-powered
dandelion spores drift past
time zones and oceans, birthing new
kind thoughts

4

The Trouble with Being Me

my head
is chock full of
clockparts, springs, and sundry
bankrupt mechanical gizmos
(and thoughts)

5

three wrens
swirl past a limb
on which a squirrel sits
and pauses his grooming to watch
three wrens

6

Waking Egret

white wings
snatch from the sun
Lilliputian rainbows
as she sprawls in the opaline
morning

7

Woman,

I wish
that you were plain
for then only I'd know
the dazzling dimension of your
beauty

8

Tonight

I'd like to slip

a single gardenia

in a green glass vase onto your

nightstand

Cinquains

1

Aloofish

hanging
upside down on
the monkey-bars her hair
spills like mocha joe and her eyes
tattle

2

Cat

waiting,
as the dark rubs
against me, I am crouched
on your doorstep in your deepest
shadow

3

Kind thoughts
like sun-powered
dandelion spores drift past
time zones and oceans, birthing new
kind thoughts

4

The Trouble with Being Me

my head
is chock full of
clockparts, springs, and sundry
bankrupt mechanical gizmos
(and thoughts)

5

three wrens
swirl past a limb
on which a squirrel sits
and pauses his grooming to watch
three wrens

6

Waking Egret

white wings
snatch from the sun
Lilliputian rainbows
as she sprawls in the opaline
morning

7

Woman,

I wish
that you were plain
for then only I'd know
the dazzling dimension of your
beauty

8

Tonight

I'd like to slip

a single gardenia

in a green glass vase onto your

nightstand

Cinquains

1

Aloofish

hanging
upside down on
the monkey-bars her hair
spills like mocha joe and her eyes
tattle

2

Cat

waiting,
as the dark rubs
against me, I am crouched
on your doorstep in your deepest
shadow

3

Kind thoughts
like sun-powered
dandelion spores drift past
time zones and oceans, birthing new
kind thoughts

4

The Trouble with Being Me

my head
is chock full of
clockparts, springs, and sundry
bankrupt mechanical gizmos
(and thoughts)

5

three wrens
swirl past a limb
on which a squirrel sits
and pauses his grooming to watch
three wrens

6

Waking Egret

white wings
snatch from the sun
Lilliputian rainbows
as she sprawls in the opaline
morning

7

Woman,

I wish
that you were plain
for then only I'd know
the dazzling dimension of your
beauty

8

Tonight

I'd like to slip

a single gardenia

in a green glass vase onto your

nightstand

Campfire

The best fire is a small fire, a slow fire

that flickers blue-red, whose voice is quiet,

a fire that makes little smoke and requires

the least pile of sticks to build and keep it

burning all night. A small fire warms our palms

as we lean toward it (so close that, not quite

touching, we share a common shadow), calms

our bloodrush and lets us breathe in its light.

Donny Davis, June 2007

April 1989, Prince William Sound

"What surprised me most was the silence."

-- Dan Lawn, Alaska Department of Environmental Conservation, April 9, 1989

phytoplankton and zooplankton blossom in the sea,

herring, krill and salmon plerk and plamper,

sea otters, seals and sea lions pup,

god windsails among the ice floes.

The cold white sun holds forth it's wet blue hand.

I am a seabird,

circling the sky, serene as

an airborne haiku.

I know this moment well

the wind and the light

but not

that solemn rainbow on the ocean's

suface,

that dark church seducing its choir.

A Synonym for Vexation

off the bus

the gorgeous

noise of raucus

truckhorns and yelling

hawkers of dull magazines

a gumwad on my shoe attracts

an empty menthol cigarette package

the leggy minx with reptilian tattoos says

'how's the weather in San Francisco' well how

the hell would I know, I say, I'm right where you are

'bulls-eye' she winks, as I scrape my shoe against the curb.

Donny Davis June 2007

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Worry-Stone

i

In my left palm is a worry-stone.

In my right palm is a worry-stone.

Altogether there are three worry-stones.

ii

The thumb-hollow on this worry-stone

was worn by seven generations of farmers

watching the sky.

iii

Her eyes appealed to me,

like twin worry-stones.

iv

Embedded in this worry-stone is a flower.

A bee on the flower holds a worry-stone

with an embedded flower ...

v

I toss the worry-stone into a still pool.

It's concentric ripples are like a lover's thoughts.

vi

I wrapped the worry-stone in a strand of auburn

hair, tied it in a bow, and mailed it to the Pope.

He sent back an 8 x 10 autographed photo

of the Virgin Mary.

vii

As an apple has a core,

So a worry-stone has a core,

So a woman has a core.

viii

I left the worry-stone in the freezer overnight.

This morning it was very cold.

I left the worry-stone in the sun all day.

This evening it is very cold.

ix

The worry-stone lay in a crosswalk of a quiet street.

It was stepped on by six pedestrians.

It was run over by three trucks and a tricycle.

It was narrowly missed by a drunken model

pushing a shopping cart.

x

I wrapped the worry-stone in a bandanna

and slept with it against my forehead.

My Third Eye dreamed it was blind.

I dreamed I was a prophet.

xi

If I steeped a worry-stone with my chamomile tea

Would it make me nervously calm, or

calmly nervous?

xii

The pro-bono attorney buttons his overcoat

with worry-stones.

xiii

I offered my love a diamond and a worry-stone.

She chose the diamond.