Friday, February 28, 2014

Content of a Forgiveness Wish

Dear God
God dear
God with
every wish
every wish
pace me
rhythm me
numb me
pass me along
spread me
the days with
me open me in
the morning
and in the
final moments
of the night
cover me
with your arm.

Thursday, February 27, 2014

February Birthday

We walk through the park
in the cold. It's
as if the warm weather were
stolen from us. We feel
something was stolen from us.
I guess I always felt
unsafe even though I was
never really in danger.
You never know
I used to say
when the rug will be
pulled away and the ground
will catch you in the knees:
hard, ice hard. Will you
survive the fall?
I wait for rescue
as the snow covers my face.
I deserve better. Life remains.
Life remains.
I look up at the sunny sky
mocking me as the wind
drills beneath my jacket neck.
Those who made the rules
say they work.

Saturday, February 22, 2014


Nobody wants to hear it
when it's just about you.
Don't exaggerate
the effect of sympathy.
That's arrogance.
They want
pleasant tales of nature
with muzzy but congenial morals.
They want
tales of common spirit,
sympathetic, without faces,
token journeys through
foreign lands, told
like fairy tales.
You are vanishing.
Nothing should be
about you but
the passing breeze.

Friday, February 21, 2014

Over a Bathtub

There were tiny clouds
in the bathroom. I could see
the glimmers from a universe
of air and bubbles,
inside my reach,
pinpricks in the
transparent air.
I dream I am so small
I can live my life
of travel and romance
on a pinprick planet
floating over a bathtub.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

End of the Family Picnic

We walk him to the
edge of the meadow,
at the very border
where the sun gets
snuffed out by shadows.
There are so many
mysteries in the dark
that only he may see
or maybe not.
We keep inventing hopes.
It's in our nature and
he is still here
with us in the sun,
but only for
the last few moments as
he needs to depart,
only the last few
moments of
light in his eyes.
"Good boy," we say
as we always do
to comfort him with habit,
and touch his lonely head.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Imperfect Escape Dream

I wake up on the ground
and the tough guys are coming.
I try to rise
my trigger finger high,
begin to float.
They watch me,
and can't believe it.
But I don't float high,
slip downward as they approach.
Dammit I breathe and
thrust my lungs,
rising out of their reach.
There is a gun,
glinting in the light.
I hope and rise imperfectly,
my trigger finger up.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Monty the Monk

After so many years in the monastery, Monty
wants to use his name which
is never allowed due to the
pledge of anonymity.
He owns nothing there of course,
no one does. It all belongs to God.
When Monty sleeps he enjoys
the only ownership. Even selfish
singularity in meditation is denied him
since the monastery assigns him a mantra.
Monty does treasure his dreams,
dreaming as he curls on the narrow bed
in the concrete cell the abbot assigns him.
He enjoys the memories that flood
through the irrational narratives of sleep.
He knows, in spite of the prohibitions,
that these are his.

Tuesday, February 04, 2014

Potato Skin Micrographs

How things break down
when I get close into
the strange ugliness
of what I don't recognize,
particles that
fall out of the whole,
new worlds.
In them I see
images of whatever is
unresolvable, chaotic
stones, unshaped cloud,
ragged motion of the sea.