Saturday, March 31, 2007

Not Goodbye

When he combs
her soft silver hair
he is not saying goodbye.

He is feeling
the worth of her texture
and watching for smiles.

Do you remember, he is saying
(knowing how memories of closed things
can quickly fade) what happened on those
silent evenings among the cushions?

He is reminding her
of what she owned
that others wanted.

Friday, March 30, 2007


Not the feel of flesh,
nor the fragrance or
anything that touches the skin,
it's far away,
light entering my eyes,
a flutter brush with the outer filaments of nature,
the biology of far away,
hidden way back
in the angel breath of memory.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Katherine Hepburn in Alice Adams

The best part
is watching the rescue.

Family of four,
innocent and outcast,
wounded and envious,
their eyes moist,
rescued by Mr. Abbott,

rescued with their goods at last
premiered. Family of myself
in my mind I fused
into a single

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Pedestrian

The knuckles of the Earth are especially raw.
On detail days there are fluids to be sopped up,
rough edges of the sidewalk to be mapped

because when you walk long sidewalks
you need strategy. I feel the weight
my body offers to nature pressing my feet.

There are rips in the thinning skin of my fingers
as I open can and tub and box. There are needles
and pins, and bits of steel that catch in the weave of my shirts.

Friday, March 16, 2007

The Return Trip

They teach us
in space cadet school
that the return vehicle
is very small
so we have to shrink
before we can go home.

I lay here
thinking about that
and get frightened.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Early in Eden

I put my
mouth to the ground
and suck the
juice from the grass,
the sweets of the flowers.
There is so much wealth,
I don't need to hope.

Living in soil laced with sugar,
like a great insect,
I can't hope,
expecting tomorrow,
I just eat.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Guy in the Cell Phone Kiosk

I am hot
in my look.
Arranging stock
in the Hallway of Wealth,
here's the soft
underbelly of the sheep
that come to feed.
We are set,
have our shit,
in at the ground floor,
running pell mell,
head gear (no money yet)
fused to my ear.

Saturday, March 03, 2007


Wanting to stuff
as many pleasures into the years
as their cheeks can hold,
they spend hours in the malls and streets
laughing, their eyes sitting in that strange dark background
that comes from paint and their hair delicate and clean,
caught and moved by every breeze.

They often keep their mouths open
letting everybody see their
pure pink tongues. So much fun
immersed in funny things and baubles,
the groups of friends
who know everybody,
assume success and
never get turned away.
Forever, they will buy things that make no sense
and sip the manufactured pleasure
of seeing everyone notice.
They will live forever.
They will pack to the brightest avenues

Friday, March 02, 2007

The Burned Out Furnace

There it is
deja vu. My moment again,
the flower, rose, orchid of moments,
light filtering through drying raindrops,
the meeting place
of all my deep breaths and sweet sleeps.
I have written about it time after time
splaying out the spectrum of it
and picking at the colors.

Poetry is theater.
You have to have your head about you.
Don't write poems when you are sad.
Don't write poems when the tears are
hammering at your chest.
Those are moments for prayer.