RECOGNITION
I read here in my breakfast room
How honeybees are trained to recognize human faces
Distinguish one from another Configural processing,
Familiar patterns Bowls of sugar water placed
In front of mug shots I stroll the paths in my garden
Daylilies, coral bells, butterflowers The bees
Secret color world of ultra violet light, pigment and markings
Landing strips to the nectaries Now airports have
Recognition systems -computer sizes up a face
How ears and lips move, after hair has grown, sunglasses, aging
I have lunch – avocado and corn salsa, a glass of chenin blanc
Hold the old newspaper headlines Dot matrix of me,
In a suit, ducking cameras Slender, hair still brown, a beard
Then a walk among the peach orchards Avoid the motion detectors
Glancing up the hill An unmarked vehicle To my hives
I remove frames with the honeycombs Bees agitate
Swarm my head Short, choppy wing strokes
They know my face
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DISAPPEARING
Bullet holes barnacle lobby windows Avoid
Patches of ice Two kids fly through a backdoor
Automatic gunfire The canyon walls of the buildings
Sounds like robot laughs Rumor has it the Captain’s
Shredding crime reports, to keep CompStats
Down Grand larcenies into petit larcenies, series
Of heists to just one 10-13 Central reports Robbery
In progress Young black male, 17 years of age
230 pounds, oversized white sweatshirt Doors fly open
Chase is on When I tackle the perp twenty dollar
Bills blow over the street I pull out his futuristic
Semi-automatic, .22 intratech machine pistol, white
Light of power and respect The next day, our basement
Apartment, my mother’s house Not enough room
Wife threatening to leave with the kids Sister’s duplex
We need a house I need overtime, more collars
My youngest and I decorate her birthday crown Chalk
Creatures on the sidewalk That night, freezing cold,
My partner adjusts his bullet proof vest: Booking sheets,
Complaint reports, photos – all disappearing Behind a moat
Of ice, grease, barbed wire a spitting fire in an oil drum –
Semi circle of blackened men, tower of tires tall
As a house Staccato radio alert A 10-15 Gunshots
Near Unity Houses, Legion and Dumont Bodega by
The school yard When we arrive a chubby young man
Sprawled on the sidewalk, puddle of blood around his head –
A dark halo When I lie in bed later I think about
My daughter’s party My camera losing memory Chalk
Drawings erased The tower that has fallen
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RECONSTRUCTION
I set the eyes in the skull’s sockets
Hazel, on a hunch Glue tissue markers
Directly to the plaster cast Lab
Bright with midday We call her Annie
Decomposed remains found in a state park
Three miles off a county road, late April
White, early thirties Linear fracture, soft
Blunt weapon My wife calls Dinner,
The Celestial Bar Near the university
Don’t be late I apply strips of modeling clay
Strict attention to tissue markers Symmetry
Of nasal bones Rebuild the face Follow
The contours Lips take shape Discovered
By hikers, half buried Near roundleaf violets,
Hobblebush No handbag but a pair of glasses,
One blue sapphire earring A worn checkbook
Pink orange sunset blazes the lab Calipers, osteometric
Equipment speckle purple red I apply a blonde wig,
Glasses, a matching earring Plastic eyes glint
With flaming yellow Later, at dinner, my wife
Chooses the wine I watch a couple laughing at the bar
The woman – high heels, black satin dress
He keeps touching her shoulder I think of a family
Recognizing the photo, that she’s theirs The waiter
Asks if we want to hear the specials
————————————
THE MAIN EVENT
I drove five hours in the dark to see my wife and son Tulsa,
An early flight My son Crow promised he wouldn’t cry
When I left again Freeman Coliseum, a good building for me I’m hurt
Can’t take more bumps But it turns into ballet As champ, I call
The spots Viper Little slaps me, head butts But I counter with
The figure four leg lock A reverse chicken wing He taps out Crowd
Cheering like crazy I’m so over with them Making eight grand a week
Later, at the Green Goose, American GI’s, drunken wrestling fans,
Fried chicken, beers Guys slap my back I move more merch than
Anyone now The Cutioner, arms blue, tattoos of skulls, crosses Tips
Back shots of JD Drunk, I saw him lift a Subaru once The Wild Samoan
Sayto A bullfrog with a ponytail Puffing Pall Malls Stirs his usual
Vodka and Diet Coke I stare at a photo behind the bar A ballgame
Someone’s kids Then there’s Freddie Blaze, three time Americas
Champion Heel manager now His mom’s dying of stomach cancer
Took too many Somas Slurry over and over – I’ve got a problem
I lay in the hotel bed, room spinning A blonde views the ocean
From my balcony Honeysuckle perfume Unbuttoning her green blouse
Phone rings My wife I want a divorce We’re done I mean it
This time I’m half asleep Visualize tomorrow’s finish Holding
My pelvis, limping, kneel over in pain But I throw the heel
Off the ladder Crotches himself on the top rope, dangling by his foot
My son kept his promise He didn’t cry
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OCTOPUS
I prepare your favorite dinner Polpi in Umido Octopus stewed in white wine and tomatos The recipe comes from Puglia The heel of the boot Requires long, slow simmering You arrive at eight We share a pinot grigio I smell your soft dangerous skin Recall our first meal in Piazza Curtatone Your knowing smile You tell me the octopus is juicy and tender You’re fidgeting Keep applying lipstick I will reveal how I know you betrayed me But first inform you that you have just eaten the world’s deadliest creature To attract prey A Blue Ringed Octopus wiggles its arm like a worm Lights up its body with electric blue rings Injects its poison To escape predators it emits inky sepia Or it can squeeze through a hole The diameter of a dime Mettere paglia alfuoco You will have no such luck
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WILDFIRES
My daughter has a birthday party at the playground I should bring her in a bathing suit In case of sprinklers A friend from LA calls He can see the plume of smoke From his window I need to buy milk bread vitamins We have to get a present She wants checkers My friend says he’s not worried There is something that cannot be crossed
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© Matt Bialer 2010
BIO: Matt Bialer is a literary agent for book authors at Sanford J. Greenburger Associates in Manhattan. Before that, he was a book agent at the William Morris Agency in New York. Among his clients are Tad Williams, Eric Idle, Patrick Rothfuss, Tracy Hickman, Jim Marrs, Philip Carlo, Jim Nisbet, Kris Saknussemm. He also does black and white street photography with work in the permanent collections of The Brooklyn Museum, The Museum of the City of New York and The New York Public Library. He is also an accomplished watercolor landscape painter. A book entitled The Best of American Watermedia II (Kennedy Publishing, 2010) will feature his work. Matt lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn with his wife and daughter. www.MattBialer.com
