Thursday Dec 07

seaton.jpeg Maureen Seaton's recent publications include Cave of the Yellow Volkswagen (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2009) and a memoir, Sex Talks to Girls (University of Wisconsin Press Living Out Series, 2008), winner of the Lambda Literary Award. She has also won the Lammy for poetry, as well as the Iowa Poetry Prize. The recipient of an NEA fellowship and the Pushcart, Seaton teaches poetry at the University of Miami.
Fractal Pirates (Iterations 6-9)
(z (new) = z2 (old) + c
Those pirates posing in the sea like topiaries—them.
                (In the Sargasso there are ships with dim lights.)
I caught them acting strange for the millionth time, writing postcards.
                (There is something electric in the Sargasso, eel or lamp or rum.)
They pose like canons, but you are a ship in my odd-shaped head,
                Bootlegger, Little Plank of Thieves.
Those pirates losing on the tee like condolences—them.
            (In the Sargasso there are ships in the deep South.)
I caught them flaying holes for the septillionth time, playing with
            (There is sloe gin in the Sargasso, a noose built for two.)
They repose like golf carts, but you are a plank in my eyeware,
            Seraphim, Little Red Beret.
Those pirates sitting on my knee like hens’ eggs—them.
            (In the Sargasso there are ships of love and turtles.)
I caught them knitting dove coats for the octillionth time, laying in hay.
            (There is a quilt in the Sargasso, a Bob kissing Jim.)
They elope like mothers, but you are a timbre in my night deafness,
            Rottweiler, Little Cream of Pete.
Those pirates eating all the brie like Baudelaire—them.
            (In the Sargasso there are ships made of slippersocks.)
I caught them curing piglets for the nonillionth time, speaking matins.
            (There is a secret in the Sargasso, a twin seeking twin.)
They trope like sequiturs, but you are the lone in my neighborhood,
            Kobo Abe, Little Trick of Sand. 
Those pirates peeing on the lee like chaise lounges—them.
            (In the Sargasso there are hips along the sea bottom.)
I caught them weaving wigs for the decillionth time, shaving winos.
(There is birth in the Sargasso, a clerestory, a frontispiece.)
They hope like roses, but you are the pi in my angel food,
            Moon high, Little Queen of Earthlings.
We were children of the gods of iron and smoke.
We made love near the dinosaurs that preyed beside the river.
There was a clue somewhere, we knew it, a key, a prompt,
several signs in a row, like smokestacks or fractals.
We sat in our qi and defied the apocalypse floating by
in barges and tugboats, salivating at our industry.
We fished the shoals between
Allied Chemical
and the Jack Frost plant. We rooted outside like day lilies.
Sudden streaks in our young hair turned white. Bones
in our fingers glowed as we poisoned ourselves with bluefish. 
I left you then, gauntly sexual beside the Hudson,
and stepped back into the betrayal of suburbia,
where my mother and father seemed slapstick
and my siblings failed to recognize me.
The Bird Artist
                I once saw a kingfisher dive right into its own face on the water.
--Howard Norman
He would tiptoe past mirrors and let his breath out on the other side.
Freedom, he said, and looked at
the light he made when he talked to strangers. 
                                                                                                             Freedom is an internationally qualified mountain guide who lives with his
wife Jane.
                                                                                                Freedom is also the home of the famous electric tramway.
Freedom is both a transmitter and a receiver.
                                                                                                Freedom is at the intersection of farm roads 53 and 86.
He set off like an indigo bunting, fractured, moving fast. I’m doing it, I’m doing it. What? What?
He said Jesus was a poet. Verily I say unto you. (Stuff he’d learned in prison.)
He was a pagan, a captured Baptist.
I love (he said)
What else what else
Parrots in palm trees
I love that

Freedom is the 15th cousin 3 times removed of 1st president George Washington
Freedom is the 23rd cousin 16 times removed of 3rd president Thomas Jefferson.
Freedom is always picking on him but they really like each other and would be lost without each other.
Freedom is standing there as always, holding a mug.

Freedom is about to cross the road.
                                                                                                He said (not necessarily in this order)
The thin coat of democracy
                                                                                                The aggressive hearts of finches
I could build a mansion of bluebirds and still not know, I thought, as I watched his family enfold him. He was beautiful this way. They rushed
to scrape his wings with their fingernails.