Wheel of Fortune
Spring Green, Wisconsin

Hundreds of antique dolls placed in cases
at the House on the Rock
look really nervous
once handed to girls
their worried eyes and unsmiling lips
whisper of impending invisibility

at least in this one small place 
they’ve allowed a few of the dolls to stand sentry
on this diminutive carousel
nested high in a shadowed nook

and adults have their own problems
here at the House on the Rock
the cavernous organ room with massive
musical instruments whose open jaws
curve inward in lost echo of opulent sound
their keys like parallel rows of blunt 
and useless teeth
while iron bells take their toll
from high among the rafters

there are darker hollows, too 
out of which gleam massive copper vats
in leftover sigh of industrial decline
oversized beer steins, ever empty
lined up on ledges along careening walkways

freedom of speech is finished
in broken typewriters piled up in a dusty corner
way beyond any word
that could be stuttered out on these keys

the slow spin of the gilded doll carousel
like a phantasmagoric wheel of fortune
with decorated horses and mermaid creatures
offers hope, after all
that maybe the Buddha had it wrong
about attachment
helps us to believe these few dolls
who ride tall
who proclaim salvation in the bling of things
as if they held one small hand on hip
the other cast to the stars




River of Industry


They’ve put motorcycles in a museum
masculinity’s sacred fire of freedom
clamped down to racks
carried in on wheeled trucks
past factory frames 
slatted ribs to protect thin air

human fingers can weave through diamonds
chains link together 
form double-crossed views as
dollars flee 
fenced-in
fenced-out or
just fenced

last summer they brought in Elvis’ 
first motorcycle
we turned our darkened faces to the light

only the truly miserable seem not to notice
when things get worse
this river never danced in spectacle of flame
just a throbbing clotted tide
run dim
long live the King

First published in Verse Wisconsin