i haven't seen her in days
she'd rather tend to her garden than sit here listening to my complaints
planting and digging, pushing and pulling
reaching into the dirt with her hands

it's not dirt she says, it's soil
and what am I?
dirt or soil?

how can i blame her?
she is my garden

 

half-baked alaska

i’d like to live in an igloo
bleak arctic night
endless naked day
free at last from
american 20th century culture
no tv, no radio, no news
just my laptop satellite connection
to puerto rican penpals
old friends, ex-wives
and sundry international buddies

i’d describe the bottomless arc
of the sun, monthlong dawns
eskimo sex, polar bears, dogs, birds
the view from my ice-cube window
the taste of frozen oatmeal

and they in turn apprise me
of gardens, parks, warmth
send books dropped by helicopter or dogsled
postcards of crimes and violence
and dogs chasing sticks

I'd wear fur everything
i'd go out at night and walk around
i'd see the northern lights
i'd remember lying on the grass
and wish i lived somewhere else