Arms make good hammers.
Door boards know them:
nut-lustered, unabundant triangles
that crack in an inch,
that rattle the dangling brass
and loosen broad doors.
Arms are the heart's clock
(not pocket watches, knocking—
more a tock attack, or lack in tick).
Danced to a twelve-step,
arms drop to armlets—
fingers—they love to mingle
in the secondary minuets.
Arms make good legs.
Less to lug and lagging less—
in tag, such an army honorific
terrifically adapts. Plus a player
gets another lap, with hairy handles
(not to mention, complicated jumping jacks).
DRUMBONE AND SNARE
We wrap ourselves in virtue—Linda Gregerson
We wrap ourselves in virtue, the packable skin,
washed for putting on.
And virtue likes our look. It locks us in ribbons.
But to excess: where it licks, virtue slacks and hangs,
traipsing with intent to tangle.
So to strut, we stay in step with it,
stopping if it stops—
a dogwalk with our smugness.
When we have less to hide—our hide's less.
Heart and tongue swing with the stomach,
lean gum and fang strike up the brain,
and march on—
to the ba-dum of one's own
clap upon the skeleton...
RECEDING UNIVERSE RAG
I'm one bone away from a very bright man—
One beep from the solar age.
One glass of milk from a collar bone—
One microwave from a beep.
One drop away from a glass of milk—
One floor from the microwave.
One straw away from the sucking drop—
One ocean from the floor.
One cent away from a box of straws—
One league from oceaning.
One job away from an honest cent—
One nation from a league.
One call away from a menial job—
One state from national.
One beck away from a beck and call—
One being from a state.
One song away from being Beck—
One just from being me.
One warble from a sing-along—
One criminal from the just.
One cat away from warblerless—
One act from criminal.
One pop-rock from a fraidy-cat—
One method from an act.
"Arms," "Drumbone and Snare," and "Receding Universe Rag" are from Pacific Shooter.