December 14-20, 2009: Liz Minette and Max Dinckmann

Antenna Towers

Their lights sashay
up and down the backdrop
of an evening sky baked
like velvet.

Heartbeats, over and over,
the lights are
red satin dance steps,
a woman going out
dressed in bangles.

They are again, again, again,
or here I am here I go –
channel off, channel on.

Garnets of command perhaps,
the lights wink “Come”,
they wink “Closer”.

Their towers whisper and buzz
to rock, vetch, to anything hiding
or wanting as the lights pulse
their blood rhythm all night.

Until dawn rubs itself into being,
and the lights blink home home sleep.

thistle

an idea in
the well-weeded
garden its purple
exclamation points
leave my mouth
ajar the thistle
a hairy stem
w/a white flower
a fairy’s petticoat
flapping on
a green wire
red wing
blackbirds have
unbuttoned the
shirts of ripe
tomatoes
i harvest the
green ones &
the thistle
place it in a
jelly jar next
to the sink
green tomatoes
rowed on the shelf
above wait this
change doesn’t
please thistle &
it soon departs
slumped shoulders in
a brown paper coat
under green moons
turning blood

Dream Poems

I dream poems Good ones I write I’m a writer I dream blue silk
scenes, blue milk
floors with dark people
frozen standing
on them And straight dark
letters words typed on a page
white being shown to me
by these dark people
planets spinning below their eyes Fingers spread out on
bubbled green glass tables,
they talk about this great writer
that isn’t me,
and wouldn’t I like to read
one of these poems
not written by me
written by me.