watches sparse traffic

from a warehouse window

and takes notes on where

overpass paint hides rust,

where the cyan bubbles up

into a patchwork of pock

and crumbling disease,

a thief in the bridge’s body

he doesn’t see, but knows

is coming tomorrow

to swallow his song.

Hum of the Machine God

Hum of the Machine God

There isn’t much to discuss with the Machine

God, though its voice is hard to ignore;

it speaks in planks of wood shaped for the sea,

sputters smoke, eats grass. It speaks in snow

spit into piles, commands the motion of a needle

through a hem. It hums. It waits.

Once, in a parking lot, it spoke to the boy waiting

for an exchange between a sewing machine

and his mother to come to a close. Mother’s needle-

skilled fingers had already learned to ignore

pain, but the boy’s hands were supple. The snow

under Father’s idling car became a sea,

running into drains towards another sea

the boy hoped and hopes is out there waiting.

Almost heard it one morning, shoveling snow

as a neighbor’s open garage rattled with machinery,

boatbuilding tools, a thrum he knew to ignore.

Father said, Might as well build that boat with needles,

but the spell held the boy. To watch the needling

of a board through a notch was to see a wooden sea-

dragon and dream of riding it away. Boy, don’t ignore

me. A lip split open. Shovel. Father hated waiting

and had even less patience for the broken machine

coughing exhaust in the yard, clutching a snow-

colored stone in its throat. Yes, he prayed the snow-

blower would take Father’s hand. Yes, the needle

of Father’s scream, as a thumb was machined

clean off, brought icicles down. The boy listened for the sea.

Gripped his shovel. Gripped his oar. Now, in a waiting

room, he bows to the florescent hum and begs. Ignore

my prayer, goes his stupid little prayer, please ignore

my voice. The thumb in a jar packed with snow,

will take a miracle for doctors to reattach. Waiting,

as if to plead, Let me try my hand, give me the needle,

Mother taps a knitting needle against the sea-

foam-colored formica, rapid as a machine,

but the Machine God, still busy with the lights, ignores

the needle’s morse code prayer while the boy waits

for snowmelt in his mouth to taste of oak and sea.

Athazagoraphobia: Fear of Being Ignored

Athazagoraphobia

Fear of Being Ignored

I used to bury plum pits between houses. Buried

bits of wire there too. Used to bury matches

but nothing ever burned and nothing ever thrived

so I set fire to a mattress, disassembled a stereo,

attacked flies with a water pistol, and drowned ants

in perfume. I pierced my eyebrow, inserted

a stainless steel bar, traded that for a scar in a melee, pressed