Mike Pulley

 

A Short Spin Out

 

These are my poems, my enemies, my arms, my mask.

The trees are on fire burning to the ground.

The fields have turned golden.

It’s my touch, my grasp, my memory

of grass, skeleton corn stalks,

little flaming oaks in among the green pines.

There’s possibly some power down in the pond,

fish-frozen, frog-frozen

in the mud,

moon fog pulling strong tug,

tendrils, teeth, torture,

tonight’s the night.

 

 

 

Published in The Hangtown Fry, No. 3, Sept.-Oct. 1987, p. 13

Published in Poetry Now, Vol. 4, No. 5, May 1998, p. 8

 

 

 

 

Looking Back from an Undisclosed Location

 

It was a worn-out empire,

Old in its slums, ruts, and infrastructure,

The collapse of bridges nearly a daily occurrence.

Most disturbing, the loss of songbirds and frogs,

A perdition that broke the spirit of the people

Surely as hordes eating the enemy’s young.

Starvation set in with the death of the bees.

Nightmare segments on the developing world

Something to avoid for sanity,

The lost species count, too, for that matter.

 

I left the flatulence and paranoia of the South

And hitched a ride west across an arid plain

To a place to be alone and in love

With my own indulgences,

A place to be a relaxing artist

And die like an animal abandoned on a tarmac

Of potholes. Some nights

I woke up late and peered out

My apartment window

To catch a pair of rabbits in frivolity,

In teasing movements associated with smiling dogs.

 

It was a time of new parables and alchemist formulas

Embedded in paperbacks sold in drugstore magazine racks,

The time when young, mannish women performed music

Of primitive elegance in the remaining venues.

The Devil was apparent

In the spiels of desperate car dealers.

They sold obsolete vehicles for tickets to Vegas

Where they gorged on the last female legs.

They were determined to die

Like shrink-wrap in landfills.

Ultimately, the guns got the best of them

And it was up to grievous angels to intercede

And speak the language of old washing machines,

Talk of water as pure as protected maidens in spring dresses.

 

 

Published in Canary, Summer 2014 http://hippocketpress.org/canary/archive_by_author.php?id=226

 

 

 

And Alarm Clocks Rang All through the Night of Dark Spirits

 

In my sleep,

I straighten out crumpled dollar bills

on a bedspread of white chenille.

These bills are nuclear bombs,

according to the man standing next to me.

He gives me directions,

tells me how to detonate

while clinging to the belly of a plane.

 

Deeper within the wound up spring

of my backwards sleep,

what poised animals are ready to strike?

Who did I murder in another life?

 

I have five minutes to tell you my name.

 

I have two seconds

to pick up the glittering hammer

of animal flight and sling it,

a bone of spiraling fireworks—

Mother Fuck God

before the white face of the virgin moon.

 

Tonight, seeded clouds drop alarm clocks

like nuclear raindrops.

 

I am looking for a trigger

for my tears.

 

Do you have any ideas?

 

 

 

Published in Poet News, Poets for Peace Issue, Feb. 1991, p. 10

Published in Sex in Public, Vol. 1, No. 5, July 1999, p. 22

 

 

 

 

Backyard Prayers

 

To be in the backyard of your own year.

To see white blossoms on the Rose of Sharon

sharing nectar.

To love the clay-laden dirt

upturned in the garden bed,

its reddish brown darkened

by the latest rain.

To sit in the silence of Sunday dawn,

in the dim light of cloud cover

and receive the rain

that comes on easy,

a quiet crackling.

 

To hear chittering, vibrating,

birds and insects interjecting,

static, buzzing,

beaks and racket.

To sense the skin

a signal, an indication

of minute winds, soft

on limbs, miniature winces.

To smell the mint,

the pungent marigolds,

the smoking air.

 

To look at the fallen leaves,

a tan, feathered mosaic

at the foot of the tall oak.

To touch the thorns of the bloom

and bring blood, stinging the tissue

and bone of the finger, forgetful,

forgiven.

To add to the compost

behind the brown shed,

to the collection---shedding,

cut offs, cut-downs,

the discarded.

 

To shiver whenever longing

leaves you seeking release.

To realize what you missed

is of no consequence

despite the desperation of nostalgia.

To pray for respite from the noise of sin.

To need repose over punishment.

To notice the sun warming you.

To witness your breath.

To feel at ease with time’s elapse,

all these events.

 

To hope for moments

in the music of a new century

when the rhythms of rain mumble

like notes of an undisclosed symphony

then the barn door left open

like a mouth of toothless value.

Inside the darkness of moments

in the dead heat,

given like hard truth

swallowed in easy sweetness,

glistening like an acrobat,

the gift horse arrives.

 

 

 

Published in Cold Mountain Review, Spring 2014, Vol. 42, No. 2, pp. 32-33