The Hot Boys of Washington...?

http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0609/23730.html

Bitte Orca

Wow?

Dear Whitefish

You appeared
as carrot cake--
fish thoughts buried

in your flour and fiber.
Only I was laughing, playing
out the high

comedy. It's like
an architecture, really.
We strew the lines

with whatever
material we can fluster
into joining.

No. It's like great laundry
blowing in a black and white
wind. Almost slow mo.

The Whitefish Speaks

So, did I at least taste good? Digesting
into the cosmos, like Alan Dugan
among a potluck of stomachs, maybe
only to be this one subtle flourish:
to taste as good as they feel. Each
and every one--man and child
and woman, and woman with baby
slung on her hip alike. Virginia
in the summertime. Enzymes. Intestinal
travel. Lightyears. Nutrients.
To glow out of the faces
that only hours ago
looked on me
as a stranger.
Where else did they earn this yen for the urge to dive out and make water move like swimming? What you taught me:
wherever it's at,
it's mostly in the fins, homey.

Love Vigilante

Virginia Silver

The pot luck party
starts in fifteen minutes.
I plan to bring something funny,
a smoked fish, head attached, maybe,
but mostly just to be able to tell K. the story.
This is a way of being friends--first
foreshadowing, then completing,
a kind of comedy that winds its way
back to Virginia nights
where we traded time
like two hapless drinkers
paying each other
with the same silver dollar.

Wenting Agin(g)

poetry
as (if)
by dream

the collected
disappearances
of a fierce
friend
of the universe

the boy
gave birth
to the marriage,
right?

I think I've
got it
wrong
but it felt like
a beautiful
home
movie
played back-
draw
into time-distance

and there was
something about
a flowerpot
flowering
and such
with said slant
it stood
perfectly slant
ed

what's funny
and started this
is this morning's
antics: H.
woke up
screaming
MOM
and when I later
asked him
what happened?
what
happened buddy?
he said,
"the lines
on my pillow
were there
and then gone
and then came back
again"

planting
a certain kind of
brief habit
of mind
pulling
thread from
thread

you
two knuckle-
heads
meeting in tween
two dreams
call that
the life that held
two (at least)
clouds
lovingly,
I hope.