September
BY RANDALL MANN
for D.A. Powell
The birds
are relentless. Oh?
Well, the unseen,
maybe they’ve always
been this loud.
Yes and no,
like always,
beyond words….
Here’s one: death.
A classic. Death
is all the little hints—
a blown porch light,
screeches
and raccoon prints
on the back steps—
then nothing
in the morning,
that after-party.
When it’s all right.
I’ve seen a lot
of free porn
and speeches,
but California
is on fire
so let me shut
the actual door.
At least
my recent
trip to the clinic
was uneventful—
thanks, pandemic—
not like in April
when I peed
in a cup, etc.,
and was told I was stuck
with four STDs.
Four! Not exactly
a shock.
I worry
about my small
bladder;
I tell myself
it’s always
been like this—
it has—
but I guess
it’s getting worse:
I never sleep
through the night,
and my nightmare
is not getting
assigned the aisle
on a flight. Oh,
to travel again!
Cars still
are barreling
over the top
of Castro;
someone’s
going somewhere.
On a day
the weather index
is green,
Doug and I meet
in the park.
He hands me
tomatoes
in a Cole Hardware
bag and unwraps
his newest penis
painting—such care
with the pubic hair!—
and we read aloud
new poems
at the Music
Concourse,
then order dipped
soft serve
at the Twirl and Dip
behind the music….
Of course,
there is no music
anymore.
We simply devour
what is ours.
The Turn of the Year
BY RANDALL MANN
after Donald Justice
I’m not myself.
Refusal
is what suffices—
it has to.
I
widen my horizon,
my horizon
myself,
an imaginary i.
Or the bent f in refusal.
One suffices.
This is what it’s come to.
I’m coming to.
On the horizon,
the city suffices.
I like it myself,
the steel refusal
eye
to eye.
To
refusal!
Clouds on the horizon.
My self
is what suffices—
when it suffices.
Aye aye,
I say to myself
(my captain), to
a horizon
the hue of refusal…
Like first refusal,
wish suffices.
Goodbye, horizon,
I
murmur to
anybody, which is to say: myself.
