Poetry

Chinese Character

it was all you can eat

and we were getting into

our third plate of sushi

before they'd even lit

the stove. then meat came,

sliced like thin piano keys, white

and brown as wood. I devoured salmon slices,

ate lamb,

and drank water

from shallow cups

printed with chinese

characters. and the scene

had a pleasing chineseness to it,

too—chrys said so—

just shoveling the mouthfuls with no tired softening

to please our western palates. we ate

for two hours steadily,

deliberate as the movement of a clock, skewering

what I couldn't hold in our chopsticks

to get it down. beef

is a cruel meal

to eat. value

a taste

which doesn't require seasoning.

The Hawk

in my garden

turned upside down;

this metal

tin. in the morning

it was safe

and steady, jammed in treebranches, filled

with peanuts

and torn up

bread. I wonder

at the size of the hawk

which landed there.

such embarrassment,

to fly

like paper in gales, see food

and knock it over.

Vancouver

was all good cafes

and also

some good

bookshops

and some art-stalls.

I was visiting

with my family,

staying

in a cheap hotel

which turned out

(of course)

on the bad side of town. a walk

our first morning

to catch a little sun

saw this guy on the street

dancing with a needle. I didn't notice

at the time

and afterwards

my sister complimented me

for carrying myself

so cool.

we saw the Jimi Hendrix museum with statues

which wasn't spectacular

but I picked up some Black Sparrow books

by Diane Wakoski

and Clayton Eshleman. I got a suntan walking around

and we ate bacon and eggs

and drank black coffee.

one day

we went to the beach. I dropped my glasses

there

and was stuck like a tool

wearing prescription sunglasses

even indoors

the rest of the time.

if anyone finds them

please let me know.

I'll even pay

for the postage. I think

they are somewhere

between those statues people like

on the wilderness trail

and that other place

where you can rent bicycles.

Hygiene

the soap

smells like chemical

apples

and it has that texture; scabbed

at the top

and dry as biscuits. this

is a room

rarely used by anyone;

there are all these details

which tell.

last night

our host

explained the shower,

now I don't remember

what it was

he said to do,

and with which switch

I should do it. in our room

his brother,

my friend,

snores his hangover -

with my head bent sideways

I wash out

mine. donegal - the sea outside

eroding rocks

like aspirin. downstairs

children run around

and throw animals. last night

we did the same. a birthday party -

she's 30

with two kids already. I pick up the towel

and it drops dust

and old beachsand, grey in morning's light.

through the floor

the smell of breakfast comes,

and obligation.

A Beach near Cahersiveen

the fire

crapped out

a flat red

light,

flying limp

like a flag

against the sky.

there were three of us

camping, our tents

set shoddy,

by hands

tired

after cycling all day.

then wine

picked up at a petrol station

to push a final pump

on our exhaustion.

at the island

they charged 30 quid

per tent

for camping -

fuck that.

we took our tickets

for the ferry

and sailed back toward the mainland,

sick and sleepy,

striking out to find a spot.

at 10

we fell,

easily

as worn tires,

and woke

with our backs

pressed onto rocks.

the sun

came up

like thrown tinfoil

on sea-views

that would make

a painter

piss,

and the embers

were black

and soaking

bones,

broken

and folded in peatmoss.

I was the first awake -

tried the door

to the public toilets

and found them open.

I drank deeply

the brackish

tap-water,

shat,

spat yellow,

and winced

as I brushed

my teeth.

Howth Junction

11pm. the sky strains

yellow on blue

as lamplight catches

at low cloud

and pulls it,

like tea

on shallow bruising

all over, like the world is only just

a space outside your chin. in Howth junction

carriage shunts

and changes stations - trains tear

the night's carrion

to pieces

and sound

breaks windows

and topples

toilet seats. your hands

in your pockets

sweat against the coming cold

and breath jumps at your face

like a puppy

bounding at the door

and very excited

to see you.

American Voices

I turn on the radio,

tune it to lyric

and catch the applause

like trees falling

just as

a symphony

ends in eastern europe,

and sounding like

it was a good one.

everyone

is happy,

bowing and

letting flowers up onstage.

I like it

but I could do without

the american color commentators

giving a blow by blow

of the singer's steps

as she thanks the crowd

and the orchestra.

they liked it,

you can tell,

but god

there's some class

that american voices

don't give

to classical music.

I listen to

the whisper of claps

trying to fill a large room

and don't want to hear

upbeat american voices.

I always think

they're going to award

points out of ten. just

give me

rhythm

counterpoint

treble

melodies.

not american voices

sounding

like they're setting down a waterjug

preparing to say something crass.

Dingle

the town

rolls around the seafront

like flowers

burst on a footpath - piers

reaching out

to be pruned by stormwind, boats

blowing

and sometimes sticking

in the surf. I wake

and walk to the shop

slowly, looking

for bread and milk

and a can of coca cola

to sooth the hangover

since somehow

the house has no coffee. we got in

last night

and dropped our bags

at the staircase, then it was

straight out, like urgency

is a priority

down here, like we were beetles

trundling business under the petals of viburnum,

rolling burdens

we have not learned

to shed.