Tom Devaney, p.1

     for Edmund Berrigan

All ninjas seem to be landing here.
They must be on break.

You realize, you realize, you realize
there’s something.

It’s about time we hear the story
of the lucky duck. My lucky duck.

Great skeins crashing, crashing,
kid kid kid.

There’s trouble when the old slow furies
start their laughing;

There’s trouble and there’s trouble
and there’s the old slow furies.

The gall of your pretend hero,
eating twenty-eight chicken tacos

before the Short Story class
you never knew that ain’t right—

it ain’t—and twenty-eight less tacos in the world.
Somehow the string section makes sense.

The occupying ninjas like a house full of cats;
they must live here now.

The film runs along.
And the furies, old and slow.

Jesus Christ, they’ve still got it.
School is out, time for a love story.

Your best friend says it plain,
says, “He can make you happy.”

There’s no leap, nothing will blow these tires;
kids keep saying regret regret,

playing that car
the windows closed—

makes me what to write a song.
Don’t look up.

Ex-large and kindness
kind of an oversized-ness.

Can’t get enough of your crazy love.
Blue sky blue sky so big;

boy don’t fit the description
even at night, the spangled blue

surrounding the car frames your face,
totally cheap frames.

Everything else, blown away, rolled down
rolled down your window
Yeah, I’ve been there—
there ain’t nothing there.

Now where are you, can’t hear
a thing in the wind.

Now where are you?
Now where? Fury. Fury.