Caleb Puckett
Commerce
In Commerce
pale August moths flit above
grey cigarette butts
Summer Games
A mass of yellow dust bursts and powders the dirty feathers
as each of the shrieking sparrows darts off and deviates
from the seething knot, dragging itself well above
the town’s old cold war armory where the boys
hunt the last glass shards of gaping windows
with rocks and bricks until lunchtime
drags them back to microwave
movie lives, glossy comics,
to mamma, maybe papa,
to a million-and-one
colorful fistfights.
Fling the weight westward until this ceremony of thin bones
breaks down the arrogant pastels of a hell-bent dawn:
laugh and fight amongst nails and plastic knives
until the ashcans in empty lots, the avenues
blackened, cast off, ambulatory, call you
all into the slipstream to be born again
by a saint’s or statesman’s thumb
with all the strain of muscle
being torn, fingertip
to shoulder, pupil
to iris to stone.
A mass of yellow dust burst, a ceremony of thin bones:
this is but one summer game, a game we always won.
Rewind
You might want to try
Libeled Lady—
Cosigning dotted lines
leading to an effervescing sleeve end,
a gold link to Goldwyn to gawking
while rigging up the mock lioness’
thin representation—
Promotional allure assured
through an immense poster posted
along wrought iron iris fences,
so bewitching, her stills spinning—
slattern definitions, verdigris limits—
the mutability of airbrushed lipstick,
the femme fatale winking
a dreamy lid askance—
Patent pumps and cotton duck alike
line this improbable boulevard
where eminent men spin fantastic images
through a series of eclipses
until elliptical wakes pollinate space
into shape and raise round a bouquet
of rouge constellations along its width—
This race is rent—
a bombshell emptied between mirrors,
apertures, bulbs, signatures,
which reinvent the myth
and recreate the premise
that seeded
Amidst benches, litter, graffiti, gum spots,
shop windows reflecting
ulcerous spit upon sidewalks—
how the throngs wish to witness
her devilish declamations—
So wanton they watch
weary profiteers attempt to settle
on some sense of direction,
yet grope among negligible stars
for a less offensive
form of knowledge—
They cannot forget the red carpet,
contractual clauses,
mascara black tantrums
and mechanized monocle’s glint,
the matchstick fodder
that mints hothouse myths
and gardens of dispossession,
the impenetrable pretense
of thick theatre lenses
pinning down a pin up
thigh-wise through needle eye—
Jean Harlow,
fleshy harlequin,
half cup heroine,
may arrive in fantastic satin
smiling and nodding nicely
without Marilyn’s proclivity for pills,
but twice her appetite for rye—
She may reload,
she may blow a few kisses,
she may even cry—
But you,
the viewer removed,
might want to try
City Lights or Why Be Good?—
Without the extemporaneous outtakes,
with the image on mute
Miasmas
Miasmas
remain nature’s favorite eye rhyme,
imperfect once you say them fast three times.
1.
Rain clouds—
From atop the scenic city overlook, life
resumes:
sharp light mines the moon until it’s shorn dry
while our sight refuses to deny the nightlife
of the ideal orange sun now passed by
like a starving, lovesick buffoon
with a swollen black eye.
2.
Silt clouds—
Diving beneath the waste of harbor, life
resumes:
the sunless salt encrusting the underwater
caverns keeps the dim shores above
sapped of vegetation; strafed,
broken and without shrine
like museums after riots
in a desert paradise.
Interlude—
Solar,
lunar, the surface sweats cirrus to grey the blue:
no matter the cycle assumed, no matter the moment.
A
murk of urchins and minnows swirls beneath us:
no matter the current kept, no matter the
exceptions.
A
miasma of cityscape lies between: blunted beacons,
magic lanterns cast by amateurs to shadow
substance.
3.
Smoke clouds—
As we eye smoking trash barrels, life resumes:
the roll over contentions and sweaty searches
for sense among water worn flagstones
cinched together with wood posts,
rope and fumes of rotgut rye:
they insist, revolt, groan
out human kindnesses,
foolish insults, cries.
Tilt
the bottle at the horizon until it spins free and splinters,
dismissing the boardwalk winter with an eyeful
of silence.