formerly mount pleasant street

formerly mount pleasant street

the 'mount' fell out
of usage

not even a hill
for miles

the new sign
simply 'pleasant'

new immigrants
moving in

from points east
and south

I hear 'there goes
the neighborhood'

but where is
it going

and who ever
would notice

al

wears
beer and sports

and is pearl
inside

fruitless

disapproval
is

her food
her blood

the hair
under her wig

the smoke
in her cigarette

the jug vodka
in her cup

the bigshot who put down frank sinatra's carpet

will tell you all about it.
carpet's
the key
to understanding sinatra.
sinatra's
the key
to understanding virility.

doe

the doe
simply walks

up the sidewalk
unhurriedly

as if

it sees nothing
here

except peace

some desire

you are meticulous
with boundaries,
edging sidewalks,
raking a line
between the lawns.
nobody ever sees
you step outside
your postage stamp,
but I have seen you
in the window
slicing red cabbage,
possibly eggplant—
something purplish.

you never look up.
our strict entente
prohibits you from
trying to see what
I am occupied by,
or what my limits
may or may not be.
but your uncurtained
window tells me
that you know
or that you hope
I am observing you
with some desire.

andy

twins, she says,
one born live,
one dead.
identical twins.

don't that
beat all, she all but
says.

surely she knows
no one knows
how to answer

except andy
who gathers her
head to his shoulder

and pats
her shoulder blade.

maria

how two
self second-guessers

produce a daughter
of such passions

is anyone's guess
but

if she doesn't kill them
she will make them

wish she had

old jogging lady

the old jogging lady
inspires everyone
including the kids
but she's spooky too:
she's always out there
jogging, mornings,
afternoons, evenings.

if she dies one day
as even joggers do
they may discover
she has no home,
ID, or next of kin
but was a kind of alien
who just jogged—

unless a vigilante
posse nets her first,
pins her down and
demands some answers.
what do you eat?
where do you pee?
do you ever watch TV?

it's none of my business,
I know that.
it's a free country
for old jogging ladies
as well as anyone else,
but she troubles me.
she troubles me.

iñes

enough makeup
for her face
to just fall off
the mantelpiece

like a commemorative
obama platter

enough smile
to give you a sense
why she wears
so much makeup

enough
raw sex in there
somewhere

you want to touch her

but you are
afraid she really might
come crashing down

first hot day

lawn chairs
on the front stoops

gin & tonics
in tall thin glasses

it doesn't matter
the spectacle

is all the boys
on the block

cudgeling each other
off their bikes

with trimmed-off
pine limbs

blithely sawn
from tall shepherds

at the end
of November

then salvaged
late in january

from the crèche
at st. joe's

richard

a bubbly, social boy
peals of laughter
but his parents call
him autistic
and brag about how
well he does

none of my business
I just want to go
on record calling
him a cherub
who stumbles more
than you'd expect

ji-min

perfect haircut and
perfectly shaved

tall and stiff as
a walkingstick insect

sonorous and
highly methodist

a mercedes benz he
doesn't really fit in

alligator golf bag
with knit-hatted woods

as beloved as his
children

block party

everyone took him
for someone's cousin

but when he and his
bike crumpled

on the pavement
no one came up and

said, he's mine.
none of the kids

he had been racing with
knew who he was

sawhorses at the corner
were moved

for the police
and ambulance

ten wanted to go with him
he was ours now

but the officer said no
you can't

you did the right thing
to call us

we have to
take charge now

francine

breast brims with love
but mind a mire

of bitterness
spite
and suspicion

she does her best

not well liked
but well meaning.

the one who loves her
is her husband

he gets short-tempered
but adores her

accepts her
relies on her
watches out for her.

I'm coming around too
poisonous gossip

not the worst
crime in the shire.

hell's angel

those who pursue the beautiful
and those who pursue the ugly
and evil just disagree esthetically,
according to a hell's angel chick
who hangs out and hawks weed
at the bodega next to radio shack.
you think that pain is like all bad
and shit, but we think it is worth
a lot, and all your pretty-ditty art
is repulsive. flies in reality's face.

her name's rhonda and the tattoo
she appears to wear instead of a
bra proclaims one fealty to a bob
and one to a jim. she's truly nice,
the pot she sells is excellent, and
her view's worth taking seriously.
I can get pretty tired of beauty at
times, can't you? get a jones for
something really ugly? we all do
and we needn't be ashamed of it.

I want to say ugly's another face
of beauty—but it could vice versa.
that's her point. evil an esthetic?
some definitely have a taste for it.
we all know its allure. do evil-doers
end up as happy as do-gooders?
it could be. so she isn't so wrong.
I say, there's something beautiful
in your idea. I know, she says, and
that's the fucking problem with it.

imelda

chic
on the way

to
maternal

enthusiast
aficionada

with
a soupçon

of
dominatrix

the boys

the wild boys bombard
each other savagely
with snow.

the good boy
stands at the periphery,
makes himself a snowball,
and furiously smashes it
to the ground at his feet.

scott

atheist jew
scientist

cokebottle
glasses

affable
matter of fact

considerate
and kind

a detestable
man

sleigh

as we sit, she explains how
the snow bends the limbs
of the shrubs into the walk
and the driveway, and they
get pruned, then the snow
disappears but it's too late,
the cuttings can't be stuck
back on: unfair, but bushes
must get pruned sometime.

she settles her boots onto
the steering boards, and I
settle my legs around her,
then push off the snow with
my gloves and tuck my arms
around her too as the sleigh
starts to slip down the slope.
as we gain speed and start
to whoop, I appreciate the
rationale behind the wound
she inflicted on me an hour
earlier during our breakfast.

greta

a small version
of michelle obama

girlish smile
white bobby socks

level headed
she's quite wonderful

and everyone's
left her

home

your grin
covers
a lot of
faults

my faith
for some
reason
limitless

but yours
is not
and I can
see you

no longer
believe
I believe
you.

bonita

they used to
send her

out to smother
mastodons

with enthusiasm
and affection

or if that failed
a tantrum

but these days
she drives

babysitters
crazy and paints

her own
face like a lion's

her topaz

his aura
of pure sex

sucked
the oxygen

right out of
her topaz

leaving
a residue of

aluminum
and silicon

smudging
her neck

and tiny
flecks of

bifluoride

gleaming
like sweat

mai

the little dragon
inside her

sometimes cool
sometimes hot

grows as she grows

as if it were part
of her

and not
as her grandpa says

the birth gift
of a rebel warlord

hunted
but never caught

partying with the irvington a.m.e. women's auxiliary

they sit quietly, hands folded in their laps,
as if at church, and watch the super bowl.
they've no idea who's who, what's what,
but al asked them to come so they're here.
each one politely said no to a can of beer
but picked a spicy nacho up and tested it.
when al starts to explain or starts to cheer,
they turn their faces onto his, blank stares.
something warm and heavy is in the chairs
but otherwise it's just as if they aren't there.

yet there's no disconnect. each young man
in his tight pants brawling on the TV screen
is god's child too. every so often a player
succeeds at something and points to heaven
with his index finger. for some odd reason
the book of exodus comes into their minds
and the drama before them starts to nestle
itself into the greater scheme of things—
satan's team is the colts, god's is the saints
and look, just look how wondrous his ways.

randall

tall
well groomed
pulls off handsome

sense of humor
but
watchful

generous

a first lieutenant
at home

in war
a meticulous killer

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