WINGS
 
The ocean cannot be contained,
but it can be heard inside a small shell.
Stars we named after ancient Gods
enter & depart in a dream.
They reverberate through
our collective neurons,
back beyond the big bang,
to an infinitesimal compact
of impacted selves,
their endings encoded in
expanding beams of energy.
We move toward the unknown,
blind in every dimension
but our poor human senses.
It’s time to pack our weary trunks
for a much colder climate,
to share each other’s warmth
like stranded survivors of an avalanche.
Molecules material but mortal,
beam to black space as errant waves,
each atom alone but connected,
quarking indeterminate but immanent.
Sweet orgasmic magic of our imaginations
plays on all the pages & stages of our days.
We take a break for the sake of sanity,
as they speak to us, through us & for us.
Then we cast them into the frozen fire,
transformed again into invisible wings.
 
 
IN TREE LIGHT
 
The white pine outside my window
grows old in the summer heat.
A robin sings its old song,
then flies away, music gone.
A woman in an apple dress
makes everything briefly red,
then passes by like an old wound.
The land is fragile as a match
burning fitfully in the wind,
but we sleep inside its sap
feeling the drumming of our blood.
We all love the sudden instant
when daylight steals our dreams.
You can feel your own dark heart heal,
that boat that leaks and breaks
just as you reach the distant shore.
 
 
A HUMAN CHAIN
 
 
A farmer from Georgia & his wife
were on the beach at Panama City,
celebrating their anniversary,
when they saw a group gathering
on the sand beside the pier,
pointing wildly out to sea.
They thought maybe it was a shark
so they ran to join the crowd.
Ten people were caught in a bad rip-tide
& barely staying above the water.
It was a whole family
there for a family reunion.
He recalled how ants form a chain
to rescue one of their own from trouble.
“Let’s form a human chain!” he yelled.
Four people joined them
to wade out hand-in-hand
into the scary waves.
But they couldn’t get to them.
Two small children slipped underwater.
They shouted for others to join them.
Many people were afraid that day
that the relentless rip-tide
would incarcerate them too.
At first, there was silence on the beach,
but then two brothers from Bolivia
rose together to their feet
& seventeen other people
grasped each other’s hands
& waded far out into the ocean.
One-by-one they passed ten people back
to the relative safety of the sand.
Like ants, they had touched
that place deep inside
where each of us begins & ends.
 
 
FLOOD TIDE
 
Another day surges over
the horizon, flotsam
sloshing through its dark
sluice.  Loose pages
drift in pools, like
travelers, asleep beneath
the hills.  There is no
bowl to contain our
tears, just flooded floors in
a hastily abandoned factory.
Though pleasure pours
like rain, we swim
on until dark, emerging
from the water’s edge smelling
like wet sand.  Submerged
beneath our common
respiration, we wonder if
the ocean breeze will
keep us on course or
blow us back into ourselves.
We have thrown down our
breathless waves, arriving
home late but still
somehow hopelessly
adrift.  There is no
pail for love.  Even though
we’ve wrapped ourselves within
each other’s arms, each
of us still drowns alone.
 
 
SHORELINES
 
6AM morning campfire, orange
firing up the dawn. Fresh 
green spearmint by a clear
stream. Water flows from
cold springs to feed the blue
lake. Minnows gather in
curtains of light. A ski boat
circles, sending waves to smash
the shore, throwing light
skyward, projecting brief
rainbows. Weeds grow from
cracks in an old pier. Rusted
steel upangles from white
sand. Two old dogs play at
waters edge, puppies
at heart. A whoosh of wings
pumps over the lake: white
swans in explosive flight. Down
flutters down to float
on a fluid surface. Boats
sit at tilt on a pebble
beach. A seagull worries
a dead fish, its eyes
long gone, sockets staring at
a sky that stretches out
over clueless cities, by seas
that birth tidal waves aimed
at distant shores, where
campfires blink innocent eyes.
 
 
THE WIND
 
Blowing up from
the deep holes
inside the earth,
the nympho wind
is pure desire.
The wind laughs
through our bodies
like wayward lust.
The wind sings
old siren songs
of love & pain
into our rainy brains.
You can feel it
kissing your skin,
& then you hear
your own wild breath
join with the wind
that cries out
like a poem
just before birth.
 
 
HUNGER EVERYWHERE
 
Gene is 75 and blind.
He uses a wheelchair
since losing half his leg to diabetes.
He is on dialysis.
He is a Vietnam Veteran.
We sent him there at 17.
He returned from that struggle
with two hearts: one Purple
& the other one broken,
his vision blasted away
before his 18^th birthday.
Now he struggles with hunger.
He’s been able to get by,
up to this point,
even though his rent
is 75% of his disability check,
because of Meals on Wheels.
It all got worse when he burned himself
while boiling water for oatmeal.
He ended up in the hospital
for so long that he fell off the rolls
for home-delivered meals.
Sometimes a local church
brings him some food,
but he often feels starved.
“There’s hunger everywhere,” he says,
still smiling with blind eyes,
happy just to have someone to talk to.
 
 
THE WORD
 
Two boys, one black & one white,
were friends in the 4^th grade.
Though they usually got along,
one day, during recess, they fought.
Both were angry, so for awhile
they tried to slug each other
until the black boy lost balance
& the white boy sat on his chest.
When he couldn’t break himself free,
the black boy called the white boy
the worst name he could think of.
The white boy didn’t understand.
His mother had taught him
never to use that ugly word.
 
 
LITTLE DOLL
 
Phalla had a great life
growing up in Cambodia.
She was her father’s favorite,
the most attractive of his girls.
He dressed her in fine clothes
& called her his little doll.
 
When her father died,
with no one to support her,
she was forced to move in
with her maternal grandmother
who considered her spoiled.
They argued every day all summer.
 
Finally, to teach her a lesson,
her grandmother sold her
to a brothel in Kampong Som,
where they stripped her
& locked her in a room
& raped her many times a day.
 
Some of the men reminded her
of the way her father looked at her
when he called her his little doll,
but more of them made her think
of the look in her grandma’s eyes
when she won the argument.
 
 
IN THE WAKE
 
Halfway through
hurricane season,
the lost rain
returned to the body:
sad monsoon
after the big wave
that flooded
our defenseless cups,
that left us
waterlogged but thirsty,
even as the angry tide
receded,
even as the ancient tears
ran undamed
from new eyes
that opened underwater
to see the useless furniture
swirling inexorably
toward the sucking drain,
whirlpooling
with dollar bills
into a foreign currency,
faces adrift
in low vapor,
shoreline lined
with dying dreams.
 
 
WHAT TO DO NEXT
 
You arrive at the station
With your pockets full of time.
You’re so invisible
That girls walk right through you.
Throw away your ticket
& skate away.
 
The clouds burn out
& ashes rain upon your head.
Your bones ache
From being used as jail bars.
Get up & move on
To the next holdup.
 
A dog on the coffee table!
A roller derby in the ice cream!
A piano roaring down the road!
A monkey with a gun
Has got you covered.
Keep your eyes straight ahead.
 
She has too much
But she wants a little more.
The room is loud
& the walls are turning brown.
Your ears are burning with old sounds.
Don’t die.
 
Just take a deep breath,
      get up,
      & fly.
 
 
THE BROKEN LOCK
 
1.
The Chevrolet beneath the seaweed
Resembles, say, a pendulum.
In the glacial sewers
They all look like abandoned books.
They gather in fields of blood.
They wait another minute.
Falling faces scrape sharp edges
Against us as we watch the stars.
Our marching machine begins to fill with foam.
Our slowly cracking table says “Goodbye.”
 
2.
In the prison of the glossy blanket
Strangled paper cars claw in
Sober luxury.  Handgun.  Caress.
Membrane.  Attempt.  A silver
Tunnel carves an orphan
Illustration on our fragile female
Hatchet.  A tiny cutlet
Whirls in nude simplicity.  Our magnet
Signs the blank, transparent
Mortgage of the jealous cartoon.
 

3.
We take the tapered candles past
A nest of burnt-out lightbulbs.  We
Shake our messy napkins in the
Trans-Atlantic air.  Our teeth
Are scared.  Our hands are
Running in front of
Speeding snake bracelets.  We
Have lost our shoes!  We
Have lost our season tickets!  We
Have lost our fried potatoes!
 
4.
A placenta of noise
Masturbates in the ambiguous
Bandshell.  Car-pool.  Vendetta.
Banshee.  Balloon.  Barrels of
Dead kittens crouch on stereo
Loading platforms.  Juicy
Manikins balance on
Shrouded pedestals.  Our grief is
Greater than all the porcelain in
Mexico.  Our grief is a polar bear.

 
5.
Candy-striped plants lean toward
Windows of music.  Strawberries
Buzz obsessively in the creeping
Rain.  Bulldogs escape
Omnisexual worms.  Our
Harmonicas are leaking!  Our
Underwear is illegal!  Our
Grandparents are alive!  Our
Rescue gear is stolen!  We grease
Our feet & slip into the night.
 
6. 
Sandwich.  Beacon.  Crawfish.  Mistake.
Persian maids lounge in secret
Frameworks.  The bells of
Mystery ring a song of strange
Graduation.  Our bluebird
Reeks of soy sauce!  Our bean-bag
Unfurls in hymenal splendor!  We stand
On the threshold of a
Kitchen revolution!  We teeter
Near the edge of an insect rebellion!



 
7.
Our eyes are bankrupt!  Our
Noses are overparked!  Our
Brains are under arrest!  Our
Bones are bushwhacked!  Our
Hair is ringing!  Our
Legs are braided!  Our
Toes are psychotic!  Our
Hearts slowly stretch in the
Direction of Hudson’s Bay.  Meanwhile,
We hide inside a giant football.
 
8.
Our bed is stacked with
Grey-haired magazines, squirming
Amid discarded
Hats & umbrellas.  Rusted scalpels
Litter the quaint fairground.  Con
Edison.  Sample.  Woodcraft.
Needle.  The sweet blonde
Morning declares itself.  We
Inhale & hold excited breaths to
See the tortured, raving day approach.
 
 
 
HEAT WAVE
 
A prolonged heat wave
brings order to our days.
Here in the northern woods
we’re not used to hot weather.
We write letters
through the cool mornings,
swim through
the hot afternoons,
toss through warm nights.
 
A big red fire engine
blares down
our two-lane road.
It’s tires burn rubber,
leaving black brush strokes
as it rounds the corner
in a rush to engage
the flames in combat.
We hope it’s not too late.
 
 
NOVEMBER NIGHTS
 
I find your face
on a pillow of leaves,
lately adrift.
Blankets absorb
our body heat
while we breathe
cold cedar air
on long fall nights.
The downstairs Buddha
gathers our dust
in its ceramic folds.
Water shapes itself
into each glass vase.
Outside our window
windchimes play
stray climbing scales,
while underground sleepers
dream on, in no time.
 
 
IN HOUSE
 
Here in my house of skin,
safe inside my warm dream,
while wild white storms rage on
outside these weary walls,
in transit through dark rooms
of long gone memories,
all the clocks run backward.
Here the rooms have muscles
& the passageways lead
to doors with broken locks.
Beneath a roof of sense
down to my crazy cellar,
shadows rise & descend
on stairs that never end.
 
 
AFTER THE ICE-STORM
 
We walked among the pines in back,
Accompanied by clack & click of branches.
Some boughs broke & took others down
To a frozen floor, to skid across
A crust of hard snow,
Like sleds that are out of control,
Stuck on GO, no hope, & ‘No more slack.”
 
We mounted wooden ladders, then,
With worn-out hatchets & a broken broom,
To break off backed-up roof-ice,
It gave us bad leaks & went inside our walls,
While all night long I heard it drip,
While waiting for day-break & still more work
On the weary roof that sheltered our sleep.
 
So now, we wait, protected & safe,
Until another bough may break.
 
 
SUMMERTIME BLUES
            “There ain’t no cure. . .”
                        – Eddie Cochran
 
It’s a hazy summer night
for an outdoor blues concert.
The small green stage is set
on a hot asphalt parking lot.
The drummer takes off his shirt.
 
The bass player adjusts his ball cap.
The rhythm guitar unzips his jumpsuit.
The crowd is alert & ready to party.
A local D.J. introduces the band.
They open with Johnny B. Goode.
 
The frontman is yellow
after his recent liver transplant.
He no longer drinks alcohol, but
he can still play pentatonic scales
all night long or even in his sleep.
 
Two drunken biker chicks
sway-dance up front by the stage,
over a hill neither saw coming.
Their bleached hair looks tired
despite pink & blue streaks.
 
Most of the men wear black, with
greasy leather chaps & vests, &
big trucker wallets chained to belts.
They’re in perpetual mourning,
afraid someone will steal their money.
 
The beer line is long, but
the lemonade man has no takers.
The older bikers sit on lawn chairs,
& arrive in cars or trucks,
but they dress like they still ride.
 
 
The younger bikers stand or sit
on or by their big Harleys,
keeping them always in sight.
They stay on the periphery,
where they almost feel comfortable.
 
But, the band sweats it out
& the crowd gets the beat.                             
The oldsters sway in their chairs
while tipsy dancers rub the stage.
Grace notes rise to the pink sky.
 
A slow blues hymn ends it
like a cool unexpected breeze.
Bike engines roar on the edge.
A wet encore soars aloft
in the sanctified sunset.
 
 
THE COLD
On an early morning in March
a gourmet chef walking his dog
discovered two frozen corpses
beneath an expressway underpass.
One wore four layers of clothing,
the other wore just three.
They were stiff & frost-bitten,
fingers & toes a pale, alien blue,
lips white as a high lone cloud.
A nearby shopping cart held
everything they used to own.
One man had the business card
of a rehabilitation center
with a meth dealer’s number
penciled on the back,
folded in half in his shirt pocket,
close to his frozen heart.
The other clutched
a knife in his stiff fist.
The gourmet chef took the day off.
 
 
STILL HERE
 
I slump
in my black chair.
Whole lives pass
beyond brown eyes.
My thoughts
are with hawks
but engines whoosh
in my spatial ears.
I turn up the music
& dance to the spheres.
My old knees squeak,
knocking against space.
My shelf life
is longer
than my journey.
Seeing a woodpecker
bang an old oak
I think of the time
a lovely redhead
listened to my chest
then struck it repeatedly
in the heart.
Even the continental drift
is nothing
compared to these lost days.
I’m glad I still have you. 
 
 
EMERGENCY
(with Alison Stone)
 
A siren blares down the highway,
hysterically red as raw meat.
I imagine the worst disasters,
twisted bodies in crumpled cars,
stray bullets near a playground,
families trapped and screaming
or their houses on fire.
Next I think of real people,
then I hope it isn’t them.
 
Sure, every victim is somebody’s
something, but horror happening
to strangers is bearable, not
even as real as small annoyances
like running out of potato chips
during your annual Superbowl Party.
Maybe that’s what it means to be
human, stuck in personal hungers,
ignoring or pretending to care
about everyone else,
one nation under fear
with justice for none.
 
Though we go through
the motions skillfully, and
even the siren’s volume
is less than the scream of greed,
we wish for the silent strength
to somehow be more than our
natures, to match the siren’s wail
with our authentic grief, to stand
alive and open in the red‑tinged light.
 
 
BREAK OUT
 
Passing everything at snail’s pace,
no roadblocks can slow us down.
 
Even though we have no destination
we’re running on pure adrenaline.
 
Inside every heart is a tiny suitcase.
Inside the suitcase, musical scales.
 
Telescopic microorganisms contort
in disproportionate macrospasms,
 
their ecstatic mutations subsonic.
Masochists pass out mass market snacks.
 
Some of us send them back,
preferring a different attack.
 
Anchor chain reactions hold us
to the bottom, drowning in debt.
 
A giant piñata hangs over our heads.
Once burst, its contents surprise us.
 
Ironic ironing-boards dictate
that flat compliments all fabric.
 
 
THE WOOD WORK    
            for Murry Harralson
 
 
I resisted him like a knot
resists a crosscut saw.
I didn’t want a step-father.
I missed my real father
like a tree bereft of branches.
I never called him father. He didn’t
like me any more than I liked him.
He was an ex-Marine,
a strong, silent man of few words.
We co-existed through my adolescence,
but as adults, we warmed to each other.
I hung out with him in his garage
where he carved & burned wood.
We’d have a beer & a late night hot dog,
& he’d tell me about the world war.
Tears came to his blue eyes
when he spoke of Guadalcanal.
In his late sixties, he got into cats.
He built ramps so they could climb
up into the rafters of the garage.
His favorite cat was a feral stray
who had to be tamed.  She scratched
& bit him many times before
he became her trusted feline love.
In his mid-seventies he was struck by
congestive heart failure.  He
could only sleep while sitting up.
They gave him six months to live.
During that time, he opened to music.
I would sit on his bed & sing to him.
 
 
FOR THE LIVING DEAD
 
1. 
I rise with an effort
I feel the dead
They vibrate
In my foggy heart
Like icebergs colliding
In oceans of blood
 
I am alone
I sit by my window
I become a stone
Like stagnant water
Or steady drumming
I was once a prisoner too
 
I hear again
The familiar beat
Inside my heart
The divine rhythm
Of the countless dead
The rainstorms of light
 
2. 
The zombies are revolting
They are crude in their culinary habits
Eating the flesh of the living
Raw with no seasoning
Duly elected representatives
With secret term limits
 
Sound the alarm
The flesh-eaters are in the house
They are slow but they keep on coming
They are mesmerized by fireworks
They like to run amok
When they aren’t milling aimlessly
 
Zombies have no sex lives
They share the despair of the wolfman
Drunk on power under the full moon
Soaked in gasoline waiting for a light
Enflamed by love & hate
Counting down to the final insult
 
3.
A cipher falls dead in the snow
From a bus of discontinued androids
Last year’s models obsolete versions
Of absolute ideals polished
To insane shines that reflect
The light that cannot be silenced
 
Jolly gunshots wound our pride
Armies of pleasure reap
Rewards of perfect cartoon murders
Buddhas smithereened by friendly fire
Floating in rivers of polite bodies
Joyfully waving their black flags
 
They are the human furniture
They are the living dishrags
They are the constant reminders
They are the ruined fortresses
Engorged on cloned flesh
Fitted with artificial hearts
 
4.
In the post-apocalyptic world
The zombies are loosely organized
With no zombie leader
They wander in random abandon
Trying to play various musical instruments
But their rhythm is shot
 
A small group of human survivors
Still comb their hair & wear make-up
Drooling & shuffling their feet
The zombies are mystified
By the smallest most subtle stimuli
But their haunted bony faces never smile
 
In the land of the dead
If a zombie bites you
You become a zombie too
You become a soldier in the zombie army
Sharing a goal with no sense of purpose
With an inner drive to obey.
 
5.
The red bird still sings
In the green earth tree
In the airtight shopping mall
In the fenced-off arena
In shadows of tall buildings
In shacks of toothpicks
 
Robots built by zombies
Then put in charge
The doors are all locked
Impervious to your meat cleavers
Oblivious to your howls of pain
Ungrateful for your sacrifices
 
We navigate by dead reckoning
Our options are greatly reduced
We search in vain for a way out
Disguised by decadent cosmetics
The sentries at the gate are drunk
When the invasion comes they will die
 
 
6.
What can we do
What do we know
We who are barely human
We who have broken the 7^th seal
We who have left the gate open
We who have stolen the Golden Fleece
 
Now the ghosts swallow us
We sullenly celebrate their loss
Our eyes opened wide as greed
Our diamonds soaked in blood
The coldest heads prevail
To organize the slaughter
 
Where have we been
What have we done
We mounted the final burial mound
We heard again the ancient last rites
We cloned sheep by the herd
We unleashed the living dead
 
7.
The robots are in formation
Speaking in unison
They all have the same face
Humorously humorless
They bow & scrape
Without relish or anguish
 
Robot malfunctions
Are inconvenient
Animated by artificial energy
Their movements are spooky
Unaware of planned obsolescence
Or constant surveillance
 
They make good household servants
They make good food service workers
They don’t mind piece-work
Efficient & cost effective
Prison guards, they
Know no fear
 
8.
They don’t need names
They don’t have dreams
They don’t throw temper tantrums
They’re not ticklish
They don’t itch much
They never need vacations
 
They don’t get pregnant
They don’t get drunk
They don’t smoke
They don’t eat or shit
They know not art
They hardly ever fart
 
A robot may be decommissioned
When a better model is developed
Many of the latest prototypes
Are biodegradable
They utilize virtual fibers
To simulate the naturally organic

 
 
9.
The severed head of Orpheus screams
Among the ashes of ancestors
Among the names carved into stone
In secret caves & hidden places
In tedious epics of doomed voyages
To the edge of the world
 
Organic life is prone to rot
Wooden puppets become brittle
Formaldehyde replaces blood
When the machine rules
Over the maker of machines
Which ones are the tools
 
Ghost lost before the body
Toy soldier left out in the rain
Hollow & impervious to pain
The pounding of robot feet
Grows louder by the parameter
Drowning out the earths heart
 
10.
I feel the spirits of the dead
They explode like seedpods
A thousand downy spheres
Doors that won’t stay closed
Locks meant to be broken
Dandelions born in the wind
 
Beats of light drummed by spirits
Into the pulsating heart of sound
Into the unsanctified dirt
Out to the edges of space
Through the wounded waters
Beyond the toxic pain of time
 
I hear the call of light
Through the mechanical darkness
Through the marching shadows
Through the neutral rocks
The stale bread that feeds
The dreams of the anemic world
 
 
DARK STAR
 
Dark star, deadly binary nemesis
Of the transitory star we call sun,
Here we are, on beleaguered planet earth,
Worrying about our own extinction.
 
Dark star, parent of the next meteor,
A tsunami of lethal energy,
Serial killer of the dinosaurs,
Great reaper of scheduled massacres,
Here, we are the captives of gravity.
 
Dark star, our lost identical twin,
Shooting mountains in our direction,
Playing Cain to our reflective Abel,
Birthing invisible anti-matter,
Catalyst for horrific disaster.
 
Dark star, planetary doppelganger,
Mirror occupying negative space,
Black reflection at the vortex of time,
Here, in sunlight, we wait,
 
& maturate.
 
 
MY FATHER’S JOB
 
My father worked at a car factory, but
When I was a little boy I thought that it
Was a prison, because of the impression
I got one morning when I went along to
Drop him off for the day-shift outside a big fence
That surrounded a huge brick building that had
No windows except a row of tiny ones
Way up by the roofline, many stories up.
 
My father went in through a small red door.
When he opened the door, loud noise busted out.
A quick glance revealed it as a prison:
All the walls & floors were a dull gray color.
All the men wore uniform gray coveralls.
An odor of oil escaped into the air
Along with the steady banging of big dies.
All the workers seemed to shuffle their feet.
 
We took him to that gray place every day.
As I grew older, I understood that it
Was just where he worked, making car bodies,
But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that he
Wanted to get out, but couldn’t.
Once, he quit to play piano in a bar.
He was happy for a while, but
Then my mother wanted more money so
 
He went back inside, this time for life.
 
 
 
SHOOTING LESSONS
 
Russ & Dave were brothers
& they were funny guys,
good buddies to play war with.
Dozens of boys would gather
to shoot BB guns at each other
in the woods behind their house.
One summer day I went to play
war with Russ & Dave.  I had
the single-shot Daisy with me that
my father gave me before he left.
From down the block I could see
the police cars & ambulance
on their front lawn, right up
against the big maple we had
all climbed together the day before.
Dave was led, in tears, to
the police car.  Russ was carried
to the ambulance, but it didn’t leave.
They’d been playing with their father’s
12 gauge shotgun.  Russ came
around a corner & his brother
shot him in the chest, from the hip.
We didn’t see Dave for a year.
They sent him off to a group home
in Colorado for the 7^th grade.
When he returned, he wasn’t the same. 
He cried easily & never smiled.
For awhile after Dave killed Russ,
we all stopped playing war.
None of my friends shot anyone
for the rest of that hot summer
when the war took David’s brother.
 
 
THE SEARCH
 
Treasure hunters
with metal detectors
search the earth
in likely areas
where architecture flourished
for signs of civilization.
In mounds of peat
we seek for flowing milk.
It will be a happy moment
in the debris field
when the black box of love is found.
Out in deep space our old light
travels to new eyes.
Another sunrise warms earth.
A newborn protests the sudden light.
Belated starlight winks back.
Human tears make a deposit
in a pink cloud bank
on the Western horizon.
In the fading daylight,
seven hundred lamps
in this room we call our own,
& still the shadows beckon.
 
 
LIFELINES
 
As a young sailor I learned
to handle the lines.  I’d stand
on the slippery bow to toss
the bowline to the dockhand, balanced
against the backwash
of the engine & the wave action,
hoping that the catcher on the dock
could grab the line from mid-air.
 
Later, in the Coast Guard, I trained
in the use of the line-throwing
gun, a 12 gauge shotgun
that shot a steel rod
over the bow of a drifting boat
with a small line threaded
through the heavy rod-head, a difficult
task in rough water.
 
If your aim was off, the rod
could hit, maybe even kill
the very stranded boater whom
you were trying to save.  You had to
arc it just right, so that it fell
across the bow, so the boater
could retrieve the line & connect
it to his bow, so you could rescue him.
 
But sometimes lifelines break.
Nylon tow-lines stretch way out.
We stand behind a cyclone fence, in case
the rope might snap.  The sudden recoil
could kill a man or knock
him overboard, to tread water
until someone bobbing nearby
can throw him a line.
 
On turbid days, afloat on
dark, forbidding waves, we need
strong lines, to lash us
to something solid on shore,
a post or a pier that might stand
against the wildly surging swells.
In dreams of flight above rough seas,
I search for you, to throw you these lines.
 
 
 
THE MIST
 
I wander
Through memory caverns
In search
Of the elusive present,
Like a big fish
That struggles upstream
To spawn in times river
One last time.
 
Like a mad wind
In an ancient storm,
Dead friends
Pierce the peaceful solitude
Where I have come
To take my soft rest
In the depth
Of a winter night’s dream.
 
In the arid badlands
Of desire,
Past the long watches
Of sleepless nights,
I hold communion
With those lost ghosts,
Even as I pass into
The ever-darkening mist.
 
 
 
ON THE BEACH
 
          “We’ll have fun, fun. fun…”
     – the Beach Boys
 
Sun, sand, surf & skin set the stage
for swimming with sharks, unseen beneath the surface,
drawn by warm Southern currents
to feed on seals that leave the safety of the rocks.
Beach bunnies bounce in brightly colored bikinis,
bathed in a cloud of coconut-scented sunscreen,
while loud boys in knee-length jammers
ram around in the crowd, leering at the girls,
sneaking swigs from beer cans
camouflaged as Mountain Dew or Coca Cola.
Small children build legendary sand-castles
that will stand forever in nostalgic memory,
while some old folks sitting on plastic lounge chairs
see resin nodules washed in by the waves,
& wonder where it all went wrong.
A friendly game of volleyball devolves into a fist fight.
Lifeguards call in the police. Several cars arrive red.
“You should have seen it on the 4^th of July!
Luckily, they had enough lifeguards & cops
to hold the line against the drunken crowd.”
Just be sure you don’t step on a sting-ray,
or on broken bits of glass or medical waste.
Watch out for backpack thieves & deadly riptides
that take you out to sea before you know it.
Prepare a personal evacuation plan,
& remember, above all, to have fun.
 
 
 
RIVERS
 
As we turn our attention
toward the eternal magnet
at the center of the galaxy,
let us attempt to pause
where a pause is impossible,
to dance before the shaggy beast
that guards our illusions
in the prison of our dreams.
 
In the hard rain that beats away
at our poor, deteriorating roofs,
we search for cover
but instead find only diaries
of lost childhood
scattered across lighted pools
of fantasy, floating amid some
special toys, forgotten but not lost.
 
Yet the long days drift by, in currents
both dark & light, still all like
storm-lost branches out of reach,
while on the temporal shore
we see our unnatural enemies
as well as our intentional friends
passing on their journeys
to where even oceans must drain.
 
 
 
FROM MIRROR TO YOU
 
Your sad hands ramble over
The badlands of your face
Like old prospectors that drag
Metal-detectors across the beach.
They call their grim barracks castles.
They search for adorable fortunes
Beneath abandoned arcade boardwalks.
They invest their time on shaky docks.
But although the harbor is empty
A brave life-raft will sail out
Toward the open, opulent ocean
Over the waves of your hair
Below the cliffs of your brow
Finding a fresh current to freedom.
 
 
OTHER WORLDS
 
Florescent orange clouds flare
above the placid lake.
Fireflies flicker
in fluent flights
over my darkened lawn.
Acrobatic brown bats
flutter in wild pursuit
of some little yellow moths
that rise from the treetops
toward the cool steel moon.
Silhouettes of tall cedars
loom on the flamboyant horizon.
A pine martin stalks a red squirrel
along a moonlit oak-bough.
They leap like two dancers
between the acorns & leaves.
At the forest edge
some raccoons emerge.
Their eyes shine from the shadows,
reflecting the evening stars.
Owls & mice enter a new night,
driven past hunger & fear,
alert to the flood of smells & sounds
that permeate their worlds.
 
 
DRIFTING
 
Summer sets our pants on fire!
Brandishing their stylish pillows,
 
The clouds lure us into the open
Arms of sunlight, & we are infused
 
Into the heat of the exploding stars.
Microscopic beings parachute past
 
Our mindful eyes, so blind to time.
Staring into darkness, thoughts frozen,
 
Immune in our dreams to times corrosion,
We don’t perceive the hearts erosion.
 
Let’s row out toward a brighter ocean,
Then throw away our mediocre oars
 
To drift unmoored to a new land,
Where clean waves splash on sacred sand.
 
 
INTENSITIES IN TEN CITIES
 
1.
Ordered a Manhattan in Manhattan,
in an act of adolescent irony.
Tall buildings with trash at their feet
evoked giant oaks in October.
After, Pennsylvania Station rocked
like a small boat on a big sea.
A striking trash collector
blamed “the City” for the strike.
Noncommital, I waited for the train.
By the time it came, I was in a shell.
 
2.
Visited the Liberty Bell in Philly,
surprised it was so small.
Its size is the perfect metaphor
for our dwindling civil rights.
Independence Hall was badly in need
of regular maintenance.
Philly is old & I felt & saw it
from a city bus that ran the length
of the city where liberty was born
& where brotherly love is an ideal.

 
3.
In Atlanta the strip clubs
are popular destinations
for home-boys & tourists alike.
Girls will sit, nude, at your tiny table.
A generous tip & an expensive drink
will get you some Southern hospitality.
They come from all over the South
to dance around naked for money.
I asked them, why Atlanta?
“Most modern city in the South,” they replied.    
                                                                
4.
Minneapolis in the wintertime
reminded me that climate
defines each human environment.
Equipped with temperature-controlled walkways
you can shop for Viking souvenirs all day
& never go out in the cold.
Across the frozen river
St. Paul is the shy twin.
The parking ramps have battery chargers
to save time & defeat deep freezes.
 
5.
Detroit streets felt tense
like an engine wound to the max.
People avoid your glance
or challenge you with a steely stare.
The Renaissance Center needs a renaissance.
Empty spaces outnumber full ones.
Whole neighborhoods of abandoned homes
look like apocalyptic kindling.
At the Greyhound Bus terminal
many of the riders look terminal.
 
6.
The tall spires of Churchill Downs
stand guard over the main gate
where thousands pour in
to watch a two minute race.
Later in downtown St. Louis,
a bar leaked strains of the St. Louie Blues.
I thought of W. C. Handy, Louie Armstrong &
the great Chuck Berry, father of rock & roll.
At the museum I couldn’t get
Johnny B. Goode out of my head.
 
7.
Chicago, the 1968 Democratic Convention:
riot police rioted, blooding the ones
they were paid to protect.
Many sweetheart deals were made & kept.
One honest man stood out from the rest,
but they beat him too.
We escaped the cops but
we were almost murdered
by some drunken local teens with tire-irons
who hated us & everything we stood for.
 
8.
In Toronto the college students
truly loved American movies.
We saw a forgettable one, but
the crowd cheered its loud approval.
The streets were clean & the people
greeted us with innocent smiles.
Later, we were paranoid
to smoke pot in our hotel,
but we wanted to use it up
before crossing the border back to reality.
 
9.
Dallas sprawled, brown & dusty.
The smell of barbeque permeated
the dry air.  We drove for hours,
but got nowhere under the big sky.
Strong winds blew us around
like tumbleweeds on the run.
Walking around The Galleria,
people smiled & conversed happily.
The big mall has more dimension
than the landscape they live in.
 
10.
Gettysburg is still fighting the Civil War.
All the restaurants are blue & grey.
Every neighborhood in town
has its own proud battlefield.
There are Civil War souvenir stores
that sell maps to historic scenes of carnage.
They take you through neighborhoods
to big, green lawns where men died young.
Monuments to conflict occupy the streets
like an army of solidified ghosts.