A poetry collection

I stand in the hoop stupidly,
like it were a circle saying
“Look, here's the idiot!”

Cried James Bond
from the broom closet.
It was beginning to sink in
he would spend the night there.

James Bond fashioned a bed
out of rubber gloves and A4.
The skinny brunette
mop lay beside him.

I watch the water
in the hopes that some
longer drift wood would drift along
for my project.

What do they say?
A pot watched…
A pot watcher never toils…?

I worry the water watches me too.
Of course the naked eye
feels naked.

I wish I could watch invisibly,
but it's basic optics that
a see-through retina can't see.

I am Jeff Koons
and I pretend to understand
whatever's going on in Yemen,

and in the 90s I had a love affair
with David Hockney,

and sometimes when I'm lonely
I sleep inside the balloon dog.

I know I am safe in there
because I keep the surface mirror-shiny.

Half of Charles Bukowski
He has hard hands, hands that are hurt,
hands with a memory for bottles and dirt.
And a genuine eye, an eye for the honest,
a tired old eye with a fly in its bonnet.

So prose skilled hands they let a most morose drinker sail,
faultless to those who don't notice those fingernails.
Nails so cracked and untrimmed it's grotesque,
they act as a typewriter hindrance at best.

So focused an eye, for those moments it catches,
faultless to those don't notice its lashes.
Lashes so heavy and blighted and torn
they down-cast the eyelids on which they are worn.

Over his poems these harrowing things
hang like a pairing of shadowy wings
and no matter how far from the poems I stand
they're as stuck as the nails on the ends of his hands.

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