let's pause for some old Bucket-head poems

The America impoverished
Bright stinky plastic
covered a jar with metallic money
As threads of yolk-mold grew
in the corners of their mobile home
a poor American family formed
hidden scales, all unstable
Papa forked his largest fare--
floatin' gun smoke, dust, & eggshells
So saddle up poor child,
No more feedin' on grass spores today.
Emmanuela Mujica, 2007



Untitled
When dirt filled slippery shovels, time dropped through
the painting's grime, through Cuban movements
When dirty rugs were beneath old men and cigars
mosquitoes swarmed through the cigarette burns
stubbing their wings on adventure and light posts
The park lit by the broken moon, a glistening peach
It was the summer, and the ocean breeze threaded us
with cool. Oiling our humid inner bubbles.
Eric Watson, 2007
(permission to publish)