Paris Super Saver
Last night I took a day-trip to Paris,
packed a bag and threw it over my shoulder,
walked down the checkerboard street, and caught a bus.

Right before me sitting in the back
were Rimbaud and Verlaine cutting it up on a yellow seat
studded with cigarette burns.

I wanted to say something,
but instead, I burped for cover.
They looked at each other,

waved their arms like wands,
veins river-rafting over their knuckles,

and turning from the window
where I pretended to stare, I finally said,
"Thanks, guys. I so needed to get out of there."

Invocation of the Dead
If the living cannot save the planet,
let the dead confabulate in coffee klatches and tea rooms,
remain polite for a short while
before spinning on bar stools
with the ferocity of a million drunks
spiralling out of control on a cushion
of portobello mushrooms caps
and frisbees covering their collective ass,
let them scream on a ferris wheel of light so loud
so loud someone will hear;

pray that they release their gangs of children
from the sewers of Rwanda,
Bosnia, Iraq, Palestine, Israel, Sudan
or unhinge those stuck between two tectonic plates,
let them dig up AIDS orphans
still young enough to hope for parents,
coax them back for one moment
while we pay an entrance fee
of a punched red ticket,
but forget everything once we're in.

If the living cannot save this planet
let the dead chant,
the first indigenous people,
even as a voice announces,
the park will be closing in five minutes;
after a day of riding Phantom's Revenge,
we realize there's no home
for us to go back home to,
all we can do is to kick a few pizza crusts
to the side of the road.

Death Semi-Waka
Now I know that death
is being in the lot late
next to our building,
hearing my name called, "Lenore,"
hearing my name called
to come upstairs for dinner,
but longing to stay
and watch the colors, listen
for shadows silence granite.