"where are you from by the way?"
//david mcnayr

pillar in the crowd
coming down the escalator
we step on the shuttle
gawking silently
it's finally you

our wet bare skin
drawing stares, holding hands
as we jump off the bridge
the boats' oil, a film on the
surface, don't swallow

september 9
like driving under water
such an urge to open you
like an umbrella
please keep me dry

september 16
methamphetamines
no more fucking lies
do you ever get lost
looking at pictures of yourself?

incoherent dynamite
talking to a wall
turn around and
yr fiery eyes consuming
my world of illusion

salvation salvation
photographing you
through the bathroom mirror
y'r amazed at how
steady my hand is

"rigor mortis."
//david mcnayr

tastes like chalk
dust under my tongue
fingerprints on my eyelids
dirt under my toenails

seeds of grass
in rows of sod
up and down
my cardiac muscles

little hungry worms
salivating in my marrow
gnashing eyeless needles
until all is hollow

and even as i crumble
there tread steps above
i can only guess
belong to you

my lungs gasp
for one last breath
with an elegiac rattle
i cannot cry out:

tell me tell me tell me
just try to tell me
what what what
you needed

i thought i thought i thought i
don't know what i thought i
could could could
do for you

soil fills my cavities as
i hum a short tune
i hum it again
i hum it one last time.

----------------------------
Addendum:

"gatten's intimacy."

not between
lovers or friends
but the warmblooded

"bvt to nyc. one fourteen oh seven."

mountains curving like Joshua
Bell's violin, without corners
or points, a perfect 8,
vibrations to ∞, only with
a healthier waist line

a filter of trees
rags amputated from the orb
a thin blanket of steam
from every field in the golden glaze

winter's ivy,
strong yet unadorned,
berries frozen and
blackened, reach straight
up, curled arms
to anchor at every
present juncture.

vines think
they're powerlines.

"a new way out."
//david mcnayr

naked and scrubbing
the morning variety of
pissing in the shower.
drying off with a
small wet blue towel.
i begin to dress.
a shave so rare.

wash the hair down the sink
lose my ring, the only one
i ever wore and i chase after it
with my fingernail clippings
mouthwash and saliva.
excited, i stuff a few socks
down there too, but
soon water begins to
spill over the edge.

damn, i thought i might
be able to wash
all of myself
down the
tiny
dr-
ai-
n

h
o
l
e

"L.S.D. : then and now"
//david mcnayr

Los Angeles.
San Francisco and
Diego. 1968-1972.

Then: sitting on the dock
a spineful of acid causing
him to stutter and bite
the already beat up nubs
of his fingernails
his cuticles crusty
like the scabs of salt
lined up along the tide
precipitated from an
unrelenting sea of
violence to prevent
violence to prevent
violence...

Lecturer with tenure.
State College in
Delaware. 1986-present.

Now: defeated and numb
after a day of bitter
ramblings to stoned youngsters
he goes back home
runs a fresh hot bath
soaks his body
staring at the ceiling
where the mildew resembles
a retro flower print
and the appetizing mustard color
catalyzes a flashback from
a state-sponsored outlet to prevent
radical dock-sitting idealism to prevent
violence to prevent violence to prevent...

"long trail."
//david mcnayr

returning to the bank of the river
father waiting heating up
the butane stove texas chili,
two men and one woman
québécois muffled between
snapping broken twigs,
rustling leaves, chickadee songs.

one of them keeps a small guitar
wrapped in styrofoam and cardboard
but there is no music.
they only string up lines
of laundry, from the cabin
to the nearby tree trunks
and play a few card games.

my father's snores, lying
on the thin polystyrene mat
over the uneven planks,
make for uneasy slumber;
but how thankful i am
awake at the rising dawn
the pale soft light against

the french woman's back
changing into her day clothes
the liberty of her narrowing waist
and gracious modesty of her breasts
tucked under her hands
facing the cabin wall
no more reason to sleep.

"shoes over water"
//david mcnayr

and so there i hung, swung by my ankles
postulating like a pendulum, back and forth
as to how i may cut loose.

my face, inches from the body
the misty curves and ripples held
tight in the crusted skin of ice
over the formless water
so thin i could melt it
with a single soft breath
through my O-shaped lips.

but it would freeze
right back up as i
inhaled: the thinnest sheet.

and so there i swung, hung by my ankles
hypnotizing the fish below, back and forth
gathering glittering eyes.

my lips, tired from blowing
like an afternoon spent buzzing
too hard through a trumpet
yielded duty to the tongue
dangling its tip in the water
for the fish to come nibble at
with tiny tickling incisors.

but a blue whale hungry for guppies
lunged up and over me, cutting me
loose: empty shoes only hanging.

“what would you call me?”
//david mcnayr

what would you call me
if, on one cordial Sunday,
sinking into cushions,
pulling a cat hair off my tongue,
the tube reflecting blue, green,
red in my eyes,
I left town for a while?

if I skipped out for a spell,
put on my thick leather boots,
my old army helmet, a little dented,
a 1967 cigarette hole,
a bayonet scratch or two,
and some clean underwear,
picked up a tank at the local
armory and took I-95 to Washington,
just for a little attention?

would you call me desperate?
or would you call me sergeant?

heir to the throne.
//david mcnayr


David, young shepherd
Away from his flock

Stands facing the giant,
That demoralizing philistine,
That primitive beast, bred to
Crush under toes and heel.
Hairy thunderous thighs,
A thick shrubby nest
Of a beard, goat leg bones
Caught in his mustache
Stored to dry and whittle,
To pick the blood sausage
From in between boulder molars.

Large stone towers,
Smooth white alabaster
With beacons of flame
And gold-leaf’d domes.
Paper-pushing clerks
Under councilmen
Under governors,
Officers and advisors,
Under princes, and
Under king and queen,
The giant is sworn to
Defend all that one can see,
Civility and decency.

The stone tower crumbles under
One smooth, well-aimed pebble.

"a mess worth making."
//david mcnayr

a modest fortune of small change,
values and presidential likeness
smudgd over by cinders
in a japanese sushi dish ash tray;
he lies supinely in my bed,
on the blankets, never under,
and when i go out of the room,
i can hear him rustling,
rolling a cigarette, shavings of tobacco
spilling out from either end of the
gummed papers into my sheets,
my pillow case, my bedside water glass.

i stand outside the door
and listen to his tongue
running over and over,
his fingers twisting knots,
twirling his opposable digits,
the ones that built the pyramids
and the panama canal
and one or two of the space shuttles.

i imagine standing
in front of the mirror tomorrow
morning, little brown slivers
of turkish and blended
stuck with sleepy dried sweat
in my eyelashes, mustache,
and mixed in with the dandruff,
especially problematic between
december and mid-march.

i imagine going into my bedroom
with a stick of red lipstick,
a can of purple paint,
and a box of styrofoam
packing peanuts, saying
"if y'r going to make a mess,
make it a mess worth making."

but instead, i empty the
electric pencil sharpener into his shoes,
sitting in a puddle of melted snow
on the newspaper by the front door.
and i leave my cats sniffing the
graphite dust as i bring him
a steaming mug of green mountain
french roast, the ceramic glaze
seared with a single phantom
out of the kiln; he lights a match
and it sizzles as he puts it out
in the mug i hand him.

"what's that about?" i ask.
he drags slowly on the cigarette, saying
"there is no story here. it is only you and i."
the smoke curls up to the ceiling,
past my nose and unavoidably into my lungs.
many first-hand testimonials concerning
second-hand smoke would like to
paint me a victim but it shouldn’t
make much of a difference in the long run.
I don’t have many guests.