Escape

There is a naked man

loaded and locked

in his casket

like an astronaut

wheeling unassisted

up the center aisle

toward the front door

of St. Patrick’s church.

In the pews

the people stand amazed

as usual, some

cry, others daydream

about the ham

sandwiches stacked

in the parish hall

and so, the organist sinks

her long, muscular fingers

into the keyboard

and grinds out Amazing Grace

for the third time in a week.

The priest stays close

to the holy water

just in case

but the naked man

has gathered his mind

and has no intention

of further disrupting

the teachings of the Church.

He has finally

gotten away and intends

to stay away.

His tie is loose, his eyes

closed, lips sewed shut

in a tight smile.

His hands

are perfectly still

for the very first time

and crossed upon his chest.

Alternate Ending

There is a naked man

inside a one-size-fits-all

cardboard coffin, sliding

into the crematorium

and humming

On Eagle’s Wings

with the rush of gas.

He is cool as air, hot

as fire, fast

as smoke, light as ash.

The naked man is back

from his contractual

obligations, long

casket rides up the aisle

into the fire

and then on

over the rooftops

to the edge of town

and then on once more

to the edge of doom

and doom’s heartland

where the earth cracks open

and more fire bubbles

the breath catches

and sizzles

the flesh burns

and there is a stench

that will wake

even the dead

especially the dead.

Early 21st Century

There is a naked man

sitting in his pick-up

parked on a promontory

overlooking the ocean.

He has been there

a long time, facing

west, or maybe east

with the engine running

and his foot on the gas.

From time to time, for reasons

known only to him

or not, he presses

the accelerator

all the way

to the firewall

and holds it there, making

the engine scream

at majorpsychosisthreshold.

Then, maybe for days

he backs off

and just lets it idle

as clouds blow over him

and the sun either rises

or sets and the air

around him boils with exhaust.

Saturday Night

There is a naked man

out in his garden

with an open bottle

of Budweiser

and an old pie pan

from Baker’s Square.

As the sun begins

to tilt toward evening

the naked man

tilts the bottle

over the pie pan

like a priest

over the chalice

and pours out half.

Then he stands, drains

the other half and thinks

about his drinking buddies

the slugs, already

stirring deep beneath

the lettuce leaves, aroused

by the scent of beer

and starting to make plans

for the short trip up

to the darkening air

and a long, slow night

of carousing, orgy

and drowning.

The Good Old Days

There is a naked man

sitting through a meeting

where a woman

he can’t stand

is saying something

he disagrees with

to a man

he can’t stand either.

So, the naked man

reads the posters

on the wall

studies the cheap

reproductions

of mediocre paintings

and fantasizes

about a meeting

years ago, when someone

set out a plate of cookies

the naked man didn’t like

and refused to eat.

Bottom Line

There is a naked man

sitting through yet

another meeting.

The topic

as usual

is the budget.

Once again, the bottom line

is that there is

no bottom line.

More cuts must be made

but into muscle

and bone this time.

All the fat

was sliced away

long ago.

The naked man

looks over

at the naked

woman’s hands

beside him and notes

the lean, sculpted

fingers, so well-endowed

with muscle and bone

he can barely

keep himself

from reaching out

and touching them

just to see

what they feel like

before they are gone.

Bowls

There is a naked man

making breakfast

in his kitchen, again

measuring cereal

and spooning fruit

into bowls the color

of his own skin.

It has been three days

since the naked man’s soul

was sucked out of his body

by an all-day meeting

and replaced with an organ

that whistles when he breathes

and eats his flesh

from the inside.

Still, like the woman’s hands

he can’t help but notice

how brightly the raspberries

he picked last evening shine

and how happy

they seem, even though

they too are being consumed.

Somewhere There Is This Lake

There is a naked man

sitting through yet another

meeting, and this time

the boss is running

a few numbers.

Power flows from her power

point slides, bar graphs, pie

charts, red numbers, black

numbers, green numbers

blank numbers

these numbers are up

but don’t add up

these numbers are down

and broken down

data points, decimal

points like bullet holes

and at some point

the naked man

realizes the boss’s

numbers don’t add up

and her mind

is completely riddled

with bullet points

and she is pointedly

ignorant of the riddle

and infinite points

that are the naked man

himself, sitting there

in a straight-backed

chair, silently

watching the drama

and the riddle

of the infinite points

that are the woman

sitting in front of him

the contours

of her auburn hair

streaked with gold currents

all flowing downhill

into a cold quiet lake

resting in the shade

of tall trees, the rush

of wind over

the water and the flash

of a secretive

ouzel’s quick grey wings.

New Year’s Day

1982

There is a naked man

standing in Arroyo Seco

with zoom binoculars.

He is amazed

at the coolliquidsilk

feel of low clouds

flowing through sunlight.

Off to his left

men in tuxedos

and women in gowns

sit down at a table

set up on the grass

and decked out

with silver and crystal.

A waiter pours

sparkling wine, cradling

the neck of the bottle

on a thick, white towel.

To the naked man’s right

a white limousine

with eight motorcycle

police pulls up

and Jimmy Stewart, dressed

in white trousers and a white

coat with tails, steps out

under the liquid sky just

as the San Gabriels

melt into it like buffalo

entering the prairie.