Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 58
Table of

           "yo, poeta sin brazos, perdido
           entre la multitud que vomita"
                      -Federico Garcia Lorca

I knelt by the knee wall
painting with black magic marker
gross defects in the hardwood

my mind overflowing
with flooding lines from Lorca
and the soft piano rites of Mose Allison

This was not the first time
I had been to the Emerald Necklace
in springtime

the red moss
tattooing the bank
like an incision filled with sand

I would visit the Priority Triangle
later that afternoon and buy my wife
a Marla harness just in case

How she loved it when at the Buttery
in our youth I quoted Yeats to her:
"I will arise and come now"

Then, I was Villon, the beloved
rogue, Horne Tooke, the shuttle
cock, Cowper, the shoe horn

"It's time for lunch," said my fey
assistant Izquierda. "For what
do you hunger?" Let's grab some

Vietnam. In aspiration of the dust
I escorted my lithe duende
to the outskirts of Pho King

  Bill Yarrow


just as I was launching my life, extending the web of my friendships, adding magicians, librarians, architects, horticulturalists, house lawyers, horse lawyers, CIOs, videographers, EFL flagellants, instructional diviners... just when the langoustines had me by the throat, when the side exits were all blocked, when the nacreous clouds began to move in, when the power grid was on the verge of extinction, when the atrial gas main had not yet ruptured, when the Mad River was rising, when the edges of my palms were just beginning to itch... just when the air was loud with the sound of invisible mockery, when the world, paralyzed by littleness, was becoming dull, when all the birds headed for the bourbon hidden in the corn, when cheers of ill will resounded from the abandoned sawmill, when craven acolytes were craving ions... just when the sky was dark with birds, the ground black with snakes, the river choked with otters, the mesa teeming with beetles, the mountains pocked with bees... my parents slammed the door of the oven of the soufflé of death and the feisty yeast of conjured life began to rise

  Bill Yarrow



one mountain has a dedicated cross

the opposite mountain is dotted with hospital-white haciendas
surrounded by the hot avocado of spring trees

over there's the empty mesa

a power plant abuts an arroyo
its parking lot is designed to be invisible to cows

the roofs of Starbucks call out for Dunkin' Donuts

watch out for the pornographic railyards!

watch out for seduced beauty!

accommodation parks, industrial hotels, financial eateries, car complexes-
what hasn't been yet created?

the sun is raining through the clouds

the horizon shifts seats on the train

welcome to nothingness


welcome to Señor Elderhostel docudrama

                                         come, put your arms around my grief
                      assuage with your breasts the boils on my heart
massage with your tears the fecund desert of my eyes

the world is too variegated
            the landscape too narratable
                      I need less scenery

I need Home Depot

            Not Home Depot

                             HOME DEPOT

                                                       HOME to the eternal DEPOT

                    where mirrors are not the petty kings
            where prestige is not the frothing queen
where the only thing to eat is not the lush emptiness of space

  Bill Yarrow__