Thomas Fink


ALL THE TENNIS IN TENNESSEE (HAY(NA)KU/BOX)

Incontinent 
sports heave 
or slam racquets. 
Nothing 
will fix 
them. When I 
took 
off my 
cover today, two          
strings 
were fusili.           
Blame hurries—fast 

as text messaging. Weathered frames of second 
hand                                                             instruments
can’t                                                                     hold the 
tuning.                                                                 Chaotic 
weather,                                                           incessant 
pounding                                                             of balls 
against                                                              the sweet 
spot:  whose   thin gut can hack  it forever?  The 

cop
comprehends; my 
people won’t. Even 
if 
I swear 
by all the 
tennis 
in Tennessee. 
& you, Sport: 
any 
playable loaner 
behind that desk?


—For Joe Fink, in memory

HOW MUCH MONEY DO I



have? That’s what I thought
I had

when we
started. That money that you
think you have—I couldn’t

find it
anywhere. I
want to know where the
money is. He made a

lot of
money once.
Evidently, money is not any
problem. He doesn’t need it,
but he

wants to
use it. I spend very
little, and that’s what makes
it good
for me.
But I’ve got more than

that. They’re all coming due.
What do
we do—
take our money out? Mine
may be going up, too.
Then why
don’t we

claim it? I was thinking
of buying two, three as
he was
talking. I’m
spending the whole thing, because
I really don’t do that

much, and
it’s well
worth the money. I don’t
like her to be so
poor. She

owes her
family a lot of money.
She’ll get some—more than
she expected.

Give her
some. I don’t know how
much it’s gonna cost me.

How much
is it

worth?



ODD DITTIES, TAR ERRATA



Crazy how little moisture we’ve had. Joyless
hum(or). Canyon burp. Kielbasa cravat. Bearded
gate. Sylph bar with shark

gut upholstery. Grass skirt
affair: faux trot

on

callused lap. Dog
gives you treat. Potable

cake. Impersonally preferred. Putrid gem.
Jet bum. Immaculate ejaculate. A wonderful
poison. Saint? Ain’t. Defective—shocking our hands.



Thomas Fink is the author of seven books of poetry, including the forthcoming Peace Conference (Marsh Hawk Press, May, 2011) and a book of collaborative poetry with Maya Diablo Mason, Autopsy Turvy (Meritage Press, 2010). His work appears in The Best American Poetry 2007 (Scribner’s). A Different Sense of Power (Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 2001) is his most recent book of criticism, and in 2007, he co-edited “Burning Interiors”: David Shapiro’s Poetry and Poetics. Fink’s paintings hang in various collections.
 
 
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