Triptych

Sylvan in Rut

Oh male aspect of female divinity,
jump and run through the greenery.
The sons of Ares

Occupy the trees' tallest branches.
Lights hover shakily through the dark.
The breath of men caught in flagrante delicto

Tumbles out in fog. They disperse.
A sniper, as though ran to ground
by Apollo, merges with bark.

At Buena Vista park sometimes
there is a bison skin and wood tower
among the eucalyptus bowers,

and a ramble of nasturtium vines
from a certain angle becomes a boy
who reclines forever against a trunk

of manzanita. A spray of hay straw
brushes off my sleeve. I join sweet Tony P.
in his tent for tea and sympathy.

On the Reservation

Humming brings the hunters
and I zig-zag up Fillmore,
Miss Sidney in close pursuit.

My rack of antlers slows and betrays me
to friend and foe alike.
Mothers and old men

Throng around me -- she doesn't
take the shot. Robert, the King,
meets me at the Davies parking lot;

He hands me a cigarette. He smirks
knowingly to someone past
my left shoulder.

Without another word he
turns the corner and disappears
down Duboce.

A report cracks the space
my ear heard him occupy.
I live and the King dies.

Through the Hopper

Mister Mephistopholes, will there be
a videotape to show what happened
through that space under the door?

Lights shined in -- pinhole projected --
camera obscura -- Emily
hears the round-robin attack

And I feel weird. Richard Kimball,
international man of mystery
Dashiell Hammett-dashes and jumps

in fedora and trenchcoat from
scaffolding to rooftop. They later told me
he was a flasher. I was sad

To leave behind that illusion
as the dial on the god-box
turned to the zombie dimension.

Marilynn Inn to the Oakwood
to the fucking Crown Hotel. How many times
will we splice and dice universes?