WINTER DEBATES ITS ARRIVAL

The rain is checking its schedule

and the snow is thinking things over.

The icicles are tentative, and are 

wondering about the price of health and dental plans.

The clouds, while perfectly willing to show up,

have forgotten to make their reservations

and the winds are are mostly annoyed 

with the others and are standing in the hallway,

tapping their feet next to their bags 

which are packed and have been sitting

by the door since Wednesday.  

But what difference does it make? Even if

they were on their way, it wouldn't matter.

There's no room for them at the Inn.

The blue skies are still talking with

the birds, the August heat is sipping

his coffee at sidewalk cafe near Hollywood and Vine,

and wouldn't you know it, that bastard 

the sun is overstaying his welcome again this year.

NO PARIS FOR ME

From what 

I've heard

The City of Lights

will change 

your life.

Where else can you 

climb the Eiffel Tower

or linger 

lacksadaisically

at the Louvre.

Where else 

you gonna see 

the Mona Lisa, 

Cleveland?

But I'm too much 

of a hermit, 

too much of an 

old man

too stuck 

in his ways

to travel, 

too scared

of change to 

make so much

as a reservation. 

So I will never

see Paris

in my lifetime

because no plane 

is fast enough

or coy enough to

tease me

from my home.

CLOUD PAJAMAS

I know another day

is closing

because the drowsy clouds

are sinking 

beneath 

the mountains,

wearing their 

cotton air

like purple

cumulus 

nightshirts.

MOUNTAIN PASS, 5 A.M. (fifth draft)

Where is the last edge
Of darkness and where
Does the light hide in the morning
Before it peeks out from the
Ridiculous clouds?
Silly me, he thinks. Is this
What transition means?
He watches the moon set over
The hills as he walks,
Sees the sun rising in the east.
It is not yet day, so
He strolls on
Tongue-tied and lost,
Giving most of his attention
To the slight, invisible sounds
And the purple,
Lengthening shade.

MOUNTAIN PASS, 5 A.M. (third draft)

Where is the last edge
of darkness and where
does the light hide in the morning
before it peeks out from the
ridiculous clouds.
Look at me,he thinks.
This is what transition means: 
He sees the moon setting over
the hills as he walks,
the sun about
to rise in the east.
It is not yet day, so
He strolls on
(tongue-tied and lost),
paying attention mostly
to the slight, invisible sounds
and to the purple,
lengthening shadows

MOUNTAIN PASS, 5 A.M. (first draft/one instant fix)

This is the transition:

Where is the last edge

of the darkness

and where does the light

of morning hide

before it decides

to peek out from the

lethargic clouds. Look at me,

he thinks. It is not yet

day.  He sees the moon

setting over the hills

as he walks,

the sun about 

to rise in the east.

He strolls on tongue-tied and mute,    

paying attention mostly

to the small sounds and the

lengthy shadows.

ABOUT A MONK

there is a monk

somewhere in the hills

sliding into

oblivion.

his disciples

hover around him

silent and demure

across the world

I practice breathing

and awareness

can turn a rose

into a moment

with just a flick

of my wrist.  it's 

more than just 

magic, though,

and the monk 

knows this, but 

he's not talking.

THIS POEM, RIGHT HERE

this is as close

as I've ever been to freedom

the word on

the page that liberates me

soothes my confusion

offers a remedy to the madness

keeps me off the streets

holds my hand when I'm about to sob

and rubs my tired temples

after a long day's work

and tells me, "there, there,

honey, it'll be all right." 

YOUR CRIMES

I want to jump into a night

where the black blanket 

covers our fears,

the stars light up

the sky with a  lust

that's purple and pulsiing,

where the moon is forgiving,

but is still a partner

for your crimes.  I want to

burn through the day

until I end up in that 

dark place

where the judgment 

never comes.

AFTER THE OFFERING

you are spread across 

the sheets 

like a sacrifice

so poor 

you cannot even 

afford the cost

of your own stigmata.

I am transfixed,

having moved from convert

to non-believer.

In that moment, 

paralyzed before us,

The room darkens

like a secret

told too fast.

DIVORCE

If all I left with

was the laptop, 

the coffee pot, and

the CD player, 

I'd be good.

THE SINS OF SUBURBIA

THE SINS OF SUBURBIA

The room 

darkens

& all the

sins come 

out to play.

do you remember

how 

you stole her

clothes in

the hallway

lied to

the priest

in that 

wooden box

betrayed

the trust

of your children

with your selfish

desires

&, in the end,

lusted in

that room

you could not

die in

when the sun

subsides &

the moon & stars

appear over

the edge 

of your suburban

dream.  you may

think 

you're the only one

in a dark room

nursing transgressions

but all you have to

do is gaze out the

window and look

at all of the rooftops

on your street

and see all of

the lights on

in all of the other

houses.  It's only then

you realize that

you're not alone.

You're just not.

MID-NOVEMBER ZEN

it's time

to breathe

and notice

the winter 

roses as

they nap

in the garden

& to sing 

with the 

ubiquitous birds 

who lounge

on branches 

just out 

of reach.  

ACCIDENTAL REBEL

I left work too 

early tonight.

It was quite by

mistake--

I just walked

out the door

thinking it was time

to go, though

it was half an hour

before the end 

of my shift.

It was the day 

before Thanksgiving,

I was tired. 

I'm not entirely sure 

what

I was thinking.

Of course, I won't 

charge them for it. 

They can 

have their money.  

I don't want it.  

The miracle is:

Without

expecting it

or 

even trying: 

I got 

thirty minutes of

my life

back. 

THE WORDS

this is truer

than the last time:

I see now how

   the words

cut into the page

& it takes me back

to the endless 

nights

of my darkest 

youth.

no fear

no judgment

no worry

no explanation

only the word

and the page

and that one-eyed

pirate called

risk.

THE STORY OF THE GAP-TOOTHED GIRL

they say

gap-toothed

girls are lusty,

full of fire,

the epitome of

passion.  they

might be right.

i remember

the dark-haired,

gap-toothed girl

walking 

through

the park, 

her skin

so warm my own

flesh

trembled 

beside it. 

I didn't know it

at the time

but 

perhaps 

that's what they 

were talking 

about. whoever

they are.

PAINTING/GLASS

sometimes the

day is a painting,

the blues and purples

blending

together in a way

where you almost

want to frame it,

hang it from the gallery

wall, make sure

the light is 

just right.  

And sometimes 

the day is a sliver

of glass, so 

pretty

to look at 

until the

blood runs

red & hot

& wet

when it cuts you.

SCHOOLBOY JESUS

Now that night

is a dark stone

being skipped 

across the sky

by an ambivalent

god

i think of jesus

as a schoolboy

standing by

the edge

of the river

fingering the rock

in that cool, sweet

spot between

rebellion and skill.

DOG SPELLED BACKWARD

I'm trying

to burn through

to the place

where dogs

give their

mute yelps

and silent 

rodents eat

the last of

your produce.

even in heaven

I think 

there must

be downtime

when all you 

have to do is 

sit and

think about

how little 

there is to

do

THE LEDGE

the dark-haired,

gap-toothed

girl talks 

her good friend

down from the ledge

while the 

ginger snaps 

cool on

the stove.

Outside,

the first snow

is already 

turning to dew.

STONES

the gap-toothed

girl sits by

the great lake, 

her sweatered arms

hugging herself

against the cold.

Sometimes 

I envision the two

of us 

beneath the moon

and stars, the sun

and rain, even in

the driving now,

and we are looking

out across the water,

laughing our fool

asses off, the two

of us 

skipping stone after

stone, one for

the luck of 

being there and

one for each one

of our 

dying dreams.

METAPHOR POEM (an exercise)

you are a 

sequined sash

hanging from

a debutante's 

throat, stifling

her breath, 

cutting

off just a hint

of air.

you are a

a bottle of

cheap perfume,

purchased at

the 5 and Dime,

scenting the flesh

of a lover whose

passion is

unrequited,

you are a 

photograph

in an ancient

album, dog-eared,

forgotten,

left to rot in

the old desk

in the attic.

you are a 

tall fir tree

in the forest,

a Nash Rambler

in the driveway,

an soiled hot dog

wrapper in the parking

lot of the empty

ball park.

you are a bolt of lightning

that strikes me

down when

I'm walking

through the

storm, my arms

raised like

condcutors

to magnetize

your heat. 

STRIPPER

At my grandfather's 

70th birthday

a stripper

gyrated madly

across the living 

room, her tassles

flying.  She culminated

by landing on

my father's

father's lap. he

hooted & hollered

& giggled like a child.

Yet I, an actual

child at the time,

merely thought, 

why did she sit 

on him? That can't be

comfortable.

ANTACID EUCHARIST

When the organ

starts playing

I think of empty

churches, communion,

collection plates,

and tiny 

white wafers

the size of Rolaids.

It's about then

that I think

of god, jesus,

and all the rest of them

selling 

their spirit story

to the deserving,

the already

enlightened,

& those who look

to the sky not

for answers or 

reassurance,

but just to appreciate

that night's stars.

THE LEDGE

the dark-haired,

gap-toothed

girl talks 

her good friend

down from the ledge

as the 

ginger snaps 

cool on

the stove

and, outside,

the first snow

has already 

turned to dew.

THE COMEDIANS OF LITTLE MELROSE

We walk down 

a city street

where neon

is sacred

where movie 

stars are

sheepish

dieties.

I've stopped

thinking

of my childhood,

my adolescence

is nothing more

than a forgotten 

saving

grace.  In the

morning, every

one leaves

the hotel room.

No one has changed.

TOP FORTY DREAMS

the radio is re-playing

last night's dreams:

here a dark nightmare,

there, an abstract montage.

the radio is re-playing

last night's reams

when you least expect it:

the illusions of your

mind, the vivid reds, 

the warmest blues,

and the deepest greens

of your subconscious

come out of the speakers

and are transformed

into notes

that dance around you.

They are sounds now,

not images,

and they have come from

two places:

first, the good inside you,

way, way deep inside there,

where you are so vulnerable

the walls are built

before the reaching out

and two, 

the more sinister

realms 

way, way deep down there,

so deep down you don't 

even like to look yourself.

  

APOLLO'S CHARIOT GETS A FLAT

as the sun

arcs 

its way across

the remnants

of a once blue 

sky

he sits at

the table

in the kitchen

wondering

where the lovers 

have all gone

where the dreams

have all hidden 

where the days have all

travelled,

you know, he 

thinks to himself,

like this one,

as the sun suicides

itself behind

yet another 

indigo horizon.