the fog overhead hung low, over oakland, thick as a mattress

  where you laid down your head full of dreams & painted images in full view

  of the bay bridge, stretching, like one of your elegant lines through our view

  here, outside skates window, the sun plunging like one of your painted

  faces into the rabid wash of gray waves, the wind slapping salt tears across

  our faces, creased, as the american flag is streaked with a rainbow of colors

  here, where we were what we always thought we were, on this day

  when the moment heaved up the water surging, like our dreams

  & we were riding these bucking horse waves breaking across

  the duned, kicking waters, mirrored & beautiful, we were strong

  as we always knew we would be, our view unbroken from here, in skates

  under the dazzling sunlight of our dreams, streaming across the jet stream

  high up in the turbulent afternoon of our heads, light & luminous

  we were homeboys, oliver, on this rare shimmering day filled with flight

  homeboys, oliver, on this rare shimmering day filled with light

  from

  CHORUSES

  I.

  SONG

  words & sounds that build bridges toward a new tongue

  within the vortex of cadences, magic weaves there

  a mystery, syncopating music rising from breath of the young

  the syllables spraying forward like some cloud or mist hung

  around the day, evening, under street lamps, yeasting air, where

  words & sounds that build bridges toward a new tongue

  gather, lace the language like fireflies stitching the night’s lungs,

  the rhythms of new speech reinventing themselves with a flair

  a mystery, syncopating music, rising from breath of the young,

  where the need for invention at the tongue’s edge, high-strung,

  at the edge of the cliff, becomes a risk-taking poet who shares

  words & sounds that build bridges toward a new tongue,

  full of wind & sun, sweet breath feeds poetry as from art’s aqualungs

  under the blue sea that is sky, language threads itself through air,

  a mystery, syncopating music, rising from breath of the young,

  is a solo snatched from the throat of pure utterance, sung,

  are wordsmiths blues-ing cadences, weaving lines into prayers,

  words & sounds that build bridges toward a new tongue—

  a mystery, syncopating music, rising from breath of the young

  SESTINA FOR 39 SILENT ANGELS

  there was no screaming to announce hale-bopp’s comet’s second tail

  no screaming when those 39 people left their bodies—

  their containers—behind, covered their faces with purple

  silk shrouds, folded triangles, lay down smiling & fell into the steep sleep

  marshall applewhite had prescribed for them, deep inside that death

  mansion in rancho santa fe, they knew themselves as angels,

  sleuths at creating web sites, cruising internet, space angels

  flying on wings of ancient dreams upward to hale-bopp’s comet tail,

  (& the only way to get there through the invisible doorway of death)

  launched through skies of their minds, they willed their bodies

  on earth, as people of jonestown did, to be recycled through sleep

  bodies board-stiff & bloated, looking for peace, skin purple

  going black as the clothes they wore, covered 39 faces with purple

  symbols the color of lenten holy week when jesus rose up to join angels,

  39 travelers wore black nike shoes, weaved through 39 catacombs of sleep,

  dreamed themselves up like 39 shooting stars to hale-bopp comet’s tail

  of silver ice, where they would transform their—

  18 buzz-haired castrated males, 21 females surfing death’s

  internet—to pass through heaven’s gate’s needle eye—& death

  not even a stopover here for these souls to rest dressed in black & purple,

  quarters for phone calls, 5 dollar bills for whatever urges their bodies

  needed—before flying through space 39 dreams, they would be truly angels

  rendezvousing with the mothership hidden inside hale-bopp’s comet’s tail

  live with extraterrestrials there in a sleeve of silver ice after sleep

  cuts them loose to flow through steep mystery above as sleep

  like rocket fuel fell over stages, left them asphyxiated in death

  after phenobarbital, apple sauce, & vodka, they knew the silver ice tail

  as the sign they were waiting for to cover themselves with shrouds of purple,

  leave behind computer screens—skies—they flew purely as angels

  now towards a higher source than conflicting urges of their bodies—

  a tangle of websites, conquered & controlled, their bodies—

  surrendering the improvisation of living, they swam in sleep

  drifting slowly as motorless boats on the sea—were homeless angels-

  took 39 pot pies & cheesecakes for their journey, they kissed death

  hard with dry mouths, 39 people down from 1000, pursed lips of purple

  open in wonder, they flew up to enter hale-bobb comet’s tail

  of silver ice particles, gaseous bodies grinning there like death

  skulls flashing inside sleep, inside where eye am dreaming now of purple,

  faith flashing bright as new angels inside hale-bopp’s comet’s third tail

  FORTY-ONE SECONDS ON A SUNDAY IN JUNE, IN SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH

  for Michael Jordan

  rising up in time, michael jordan hangs like an icon, suspended in space,

  cocks his right arm, fires a jump shot for two, the title game on the line,

  his eyes two radar screens screwed like nails into the mask of his face

  bore in on the basket, gaze focused, a thing of beauty, no shadow, or trace,

  nor hint of fear, in this, his showplace, his ultimate place to shine,

  rising up in time michael jordan hangs like an icon, suspended in space,

  after he has moved from baseline to baseline, sideline to sideline, his coal-face

  shining, wagging his tongue, he dribbles through chaos, snaking serpentine,

  his eyes two radar screens screwed like nails into the mask of his face,

  he bolts a flash up the court, takes off, floats in for two more in this race

  for glory, it is his time, what he was put on earth for, he can see the headline,

  rising up in time, michael jordan hangs like an icon, suspended in space,

  inside his imagination, he feels the moment he will embrace, knows his place

  is written here, inside this quickening pace of nerves, he will define,

  his eyes two radar screens screwed like nails into the mask of his face,

  inside this moment he will rule on his own terms, quick as a cat he interfaces

  time, victory & glory, he crosses over his dribble he is king of this shrine,

  rising up in time, michael jordan hangs like an icon, suspended in space,

  his eyes two radar screens screwed like nails into the mask of his face

  II.

  GRAY DAY IN JANUARY IN LA JOLLA

  for Porter Sylvanus Troupe

  the day absent of sun, troubles in over plush hill tops

  threatening rain, cool hours mist towards noon

  wearing gray shawls of vapor, patches of blue peek through

  ragged spaces punched in clouds, look like anxious eyes of scandinavians

  worrying through their skins when they see snow storms coming,

  in a place cold & white as anything imaginable, eye look

  past green foliage touched with hints of autumn shivering

  like a homeless white man in a harlem doorway in february,

  look past white ice storms freezing the nation, all the way to the capital,

  on martin luther king day, standing there on heated stone, bill

  clinton takes his second oath of office, as rumors swirl around him

  posing as vultures devouring an abandoned blood kill,

  he lays out a vision for the future as good old boys dumped

  like pilsbury dough into their rumpled suits fight back yawns, eyes

  boring into the back of clinton’s head like cold barrels of shotguns,

  the cheers of the massive crowd punctuated by gun salutes,

  tries beating back the cold of this day sweeping in from the artic,

  flags popping trembling wings crackover the capitol,

  as jessye norman takes us where we have to go, singing:

  america, america, God shed his grace on thee, & crown thy good

  with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea

  but we remember the reality of ennis cosby’s senseless death, on this day

  out here in the west, where everything seems so cozy & warm, where

  time wears the laid back attitude of a surfer crouched on a board,

  riding an incoming wave, eye see climbing up invisible ladder rungs,

  deep in his imagination, the growing power of my son

  porter’s angular body, all arms & legs now, eyes peering out innocent

  but knowing, laid back but cold, his mind calculating the distance

  his thirteen-year-old body must conquer before he understands

  the meaning of roads he has just walked over pigeon-toed,

  clouds breaking across tops of hillsides, light shimmying in golden

  blue, the sky widening into this moment bright as anywhere

  clear & warm, the voice of jessye norman touching the blues breaks through

  radio, her voice evoking history washes through this poem,

  implanting hints of lady day’s warning of “strange fruit,”

  as the threat of another storm gathers itself—as love

  & hatred everywhere—north of here, above san francisco,

  porter & eye see shadows of clouds lengthening here in la jolla

  see them spreading down hillsides like dark amoebas, mirth,

  ragged as edges of daylight slipping toward darkness,

  the air cool with mist now, the hour decked out in gray shawls,

  cloud vapors now puffing into shapes of dolphins, whales

  sharks cruising a sky cold as these waters off the coastline

  MOTHER

  for Dorothy Smith Marshall

  when eye was growing up she used to sit in the bathroom, each & every

  morning, smoking kool cigarettes, drinking hot coffee, reading newspapers,

  a hard toilet seat caressing her derrière, reading glasses in place,

  serious as cancer, the way her eyes devoured everything,

  finished newspapers stacked up high as her waistline when she stood

  proud, erect, defiant, all of five feet two inches tall in high heel shoes, petite

  she was a pistol when she was young, eyes blazing, boring in

  like bullets when her temper squeezed the trigger of her ire,

  hard, her rage angry scars she raised on me & my brother’s backs & legs,

  dealt out with ironing cords that hissed through the air like whips, coiled snakes

  about to strike, it was her mother’s influence (she was scared to death of her

  mother—mama to me & my brother timmy—) who believed in retribution,

  payback, fear, to the bitter end we watched mama slap mother around hard,

  once or twice, for some perceived transgression or indiscretion,

  but we loved them both deeper than fear itself,

  loved mother, mama too, because we knew we were a lot to handle—

  my brother & me—born to do mischief in a neighborhood full of young thieves,

  malcontents, murderers-to-be, you name it, they thrived & flourished there—

  the good & straight thieves we rejected out of hand as past tense, negro, square

  as blocks we played with once until we wrapped hands around straight razors—

  so she cracked the whip hard, raised welts on our backs & hardening butts,

  legs & arms, kept fear alive in us, to keep us in line & alive

  she always ha books around the house, introduced me to poetry & novels

  wanted to be a schoolteacher, raising me & my brother got in the way of that

  & as she grew older she left a string of glassy-eyed suitors

  in her wake, my father being the first who didn’t make it all the way

  home, where her sweet perfume trailed through the air like flowers

  blooming fresh in springtime, gardenias of lady day, sometimes

  jasmine, or roses, it depended on her mood, but there was always something

  about her that kept them coming back for more, time & again,

  whatever she had bewitched them with, her charm, maybe,

  that could be dazzling as the smile flashing above her sensuous walk

  that beckoned, her step so light she seemed to float through air, meriny-yellow

  in skin tone, plum, cushiony lips, splashed bright red & full, smooth,

  she called herself a party girl—though she was always much more than this,

  though she was this too—with a great sense of style, dressed to kill cock-

  robin, could press pedal to the metal out on the dance floor,

  she caused heads to swivel on necks like spinning tops

  whenever she passed, her fragrance tantalizing nostrils,

  trailing behind her like a sweet-smelling, invisible plume

  she’s in her eighties now, still sits on the toilet each & every morning,

  repeating the same ritual, only now she doesn’t smoke anymore,

  everybody’s gone to the other side on her side of the family—mama,

  her brothers garfield & allen, aunts & uncles, cousins, her daddy, mine too—

  men her age still sniff behind her glassy eyed, whenever she honors them

  when she looks their way, still a fashion plate, the best of her time, her smile

  remains dazzling, her skill to squeeze copper from a penny, squirrel away

  money—a survivor of the depression, she is tenacious—for rainy days,

  she’s softer now, tells me she loves me every time we speak

  over the telephone, tells me, with regret, she could have done better by me

  but that’s hogwash, because she did the best she could with what she had,

  that was more than enough to get us through all the madness,

  she is still a pistol at 81, has all of her real teeth, too, has outlived all of her

  suitors, except this last one, biff, who she says is slowing down at 79,

  still walks with a bounce in her stride, seems to still float across

  & through the air, her eyes blazing bore in on you still like bullets

  whenever she squeezes the trigger of her temper, ire

  & eye love her more than eye could ever imagine,

  love her far deeper than fear itself

  JEREZ DE LA FRONTERA

  for Peter

  1.

  in the deep black hours of jerez, after midnight, margaret is a mummy

  wrapped in a white sheet where she sleeps, in the dead of night, she lies

  in the center of our bed, stiff as demeanors of some european aristocrats, peter,

  your house quiet as church mice sniffing gold leaf pages of a book of sacrament,

  a cool breeze licking in over white walls & slanted roofs from the east filters

  heat, announces morning light is not far off, wedded, as it is, to daybreak, soon

  the white bridal gown of first light will spread out its hem, lift its white lace

  veil, while a lengthening train of clues breaks the dark into spreading

  blues, which are current everywhere, common as lyrics of muddy waters,

  john lee hooker, lightnin’ hopkins, somewhere deep inside

  a snoring voice of lament breaks through the last vestiges of quiet hours,

  at the center of a slippery moment full of dreaming, a motor bike zips through,

  leaning around corners, it escalates the language of its speed as it shoots, veers,

  clues itself into somewhere it is due, gearing down towards silence as it blows

  past white walls & roofs collaged in bold relief against a spangled black sky,

  they look like still lifes from my second floor window over the garden,

  while margaret’s sweet fragrance rises like seduction from where she sleeps,

  her body a stand-in for a mummy wrapped in white linen, her face sweet,

  is turned toward the window as if to kiss first light when it comes

  2.

  now a sliver of moon smiles through our room above the tiny chimneys,

  they seem to wear small hats cocked ace-duce, like the icon of tio pepe sherry,

  peter has told us of the burning hot wind of dust & fire called la vente,

  which brings grief from the east, when the weather vane’s arrow head points

  in the direction of seville, granada’s alhambra, lorca’s moorish part of andalusia,

  its craggy mountain peaks sharp as alligator teeth, their skin the color of chalk

  brown mixed with ochre, greens, reds, white villages & towns—

  & one the shape of one of miro’s floating birds—sweep across this heat-

  stricken landscape of late august, up & down rolling, warbled landscapes,

  rendered mysterious by el greco’s surreal, strangely beautiful canvases,

  they seem to be rising up from some moonscape, somber dream,

  but today the weather vane arrows north, towards madrid & morning

  breaks through smells of coffee, footsteps that crack hard as castanets, or skulls

  being popped open when smashed against old cobblestone streets, spilled brandy

  that stained tiled squares checkerboarding the walkway of the plaza plateros

  last night, is being washed clean, right before daylight breaks apart my dreams,

  eye hear in the center of my imagination the roar of a bullring, erupting