Amoroso

gently with a stealth
layered in the calm of
hearts

floating aimlessly as
butterfly wings whispering

a melody of memories
roaming and weaving like
the drift of fog in the
early morning silence

a song plays saturated
in the solace of the forest
framed by the city lights
dimming to the rise of the sun

an undertow westward ebbs
to soak the setting half moon
then humbles itself at the foot
of Poseidon in the eastern sea

dawn tips our chins to God
trapped in awe
awaiting the next chorus

Inert

you can feel the day hit like
all the rest
leftover anchors weighing you
down from yesterday’s
trivial roadblocks

the great wall of China lined up
around your bed
what’s the use when
even the thought of having
to decide which coffee to drink
today is a thorn in your side

it’s so easy to abandon the
whole thing and attempt to
rekindle the dream draining
into the back of your skull

this is about the time your
bladder reminds you of its
existence and you are forced
to relinquish your warm position
under the comforter and traverse
the cold tile of the bathroom floor

while your feet awaken your
head hangs heavy in a droop to
one side trying to ignore the sting
of the toilet seat but at least relief
has come to the pressure immediate

it is now you notice the sunshine
spilling into the shower from the
glass block window and maybe a
shower would be OK if only to melt
the crusty hair helmet coifed
from the pillow

ahh pillow...
a magnet too strong to avoid
even if this might be
the nicest day of the year

The Dark Ages Continue

life is spun like a puzzle
in cubes and circles
never fitting into the right holes
once dug by those now laid
to rest in green fields of grass and stone

the key to motion is inertia
once pushed we glide until
our lies catch up with us

some lies become walls too high
to climb or crumble and will
serve as a headstone when winter
leaves its ice

to be fooled by hypocrisy
is a shameful ignorance akin
to bigotry which is the most selfish
highway too frequently
traveled upon

some will never solve this puzzle
and the others will watch and give clues
and hint while looking on or away in remorse

Sue

Sue said she was going to keep it
but had no room, so she had to
move a few things around, it’s a
small place anyway, and some things
have already disappeared. like her yearbooks,
where the hell were they?

Jimi felt guilty, though he had
nothing to do with the yearbooks,
he was responsible for her
condition, though he felt no urge
or connection to the thing, he’s thinking
of when the beer comes and
makes things blurry and insignificant.

Sue felt too tense to deal with
Jimi and all his issues, so she went
to the bathroom to relieve herself, and
there was blood on the tissue, which raised
her blood pressure and made her cry.

She always went to the bathroom
with the cordless phone in case
someone good called, so she called
her mom to see what she thought, but
she had nothing to add, except that she
better go see her doctor, which she did
the next day and found out she had
miscarried the little thing.

Still sore from the pelvic intrusion,
Sue sat gingerly on her futon and starred
blankly at the white bedroom walls
not really thinking anything, and
actually trying not to think at all.

Jimi came in and held her, hoping
to see some kind of positive reaction
in her colorless face, but she was gone,
off to a another planet or something.

It was then she grabbed his hand
knowing he was all she had in this world,
while he planned his next beer.

Hidden Hurricanes

off in the swirl of evaporation sailing
playful with numbers and breaths heading
west to coastal waters jumping at the piers
of leisure yachts and sandcastles and buried
feet sifting into the dusty liquid

red and yellow pales tipped sideways
collecting orphaned shells from the hermits
gone to crawl into a new condo coughed
up by the tidal currents

new children with eyes wide and smiling
fondly wander from grasp too
close to the surf gathering a goo
under their nose that mimics the haphazard
jellyfish strewn between the rocks

fractures of sunset bonfires break
along the shoreline shimmering as lighthouses
would in days of candles calling
to the open water and the last fisherman
holding out for a steak and dry clothes

seagulls cry warnings into the purple
of the western havens then scatter out
of spite and greed as old fish wash
to shore ready to die again

sated waves of black grape grow larger
beyond tilting buoys riding the tide
with chained angst knowing they
will have to soon surrender to the sea

the soft breeze turns to gust and then
to gale whistling at the palms bowing
their heads in prayer as the last natives
dance around the dying embers
of ritual plywood scraps saved from
the windows of delis and coffee shops

often silent but never quiet
the sea tells of its intentions and lies
about its motives

Reprise

my door slides to the right heavy
glass and tree a window to sunshine
or rain or fog or snow

temperatures vary with season whether
sweat pants or shorts neither can filter
my emotions once upon the deck

though the flies try to get a reaction
the breeze speaks for me moving them
to another dimension

I hold session over the backyard taming
shrews and hidden worms sipping cola and
the breeze with the same breath

once confined now freed to its own
traditions my mind sifts through the
silt left from the pillow wet with drool

aromas are dessert taken in
with sugar and honey intense with
their own relaxation techniques

leaning back in the shade of a
western morning solitaire with its
intrusions forcing thought and movement

I lay humble to the day and all of
his designs laid out on the tableau of this
momentary eternity

if only for a click of a kilobyte before
the rest of the world rolls around
to rattle my peasant cage

Which Would Mean Nothing...

he left on a Saturday
except he loved Saturday’s

she filled the bathtub with water
except she never took baths

he took the paper with him
except he never read the paper

she made pancakes for breakfast
except she never cooked

he bought a pack of cigarettes
except he never smoked

she put on her finest dress
he walked for hours around the lake
she brushed her hair one hundred times
he fed pigeons
she applied lipstick
he threw sticks into the water
she sprayed perfume
he cried at his decision
she was stoic in the mirror
he remained frozen to the bench
she plugged in the hair dryer
he laid in the sand
she kissed the glass
he wrote her name with his index finger
she entered the tub
he dusted off the sand
she floated on the water’s surface
he walked back to the house
she grabbed the cord with her toes
he caught it before it fell
she rose to slap his face
he kissed her passionately
she did not pull away
he got into the tub
she made room
he kept kissing her
except he had never kissed her like that before

She Was

She was, at once, without her breath
slipping from the place that makes
you cry and remember,

she had a moment of clarity not
to be shared or discovered by
anthropologists of future races.

The flood she felt was fast, leaving
her head to fill her feet to
feed the thorns of roses,

she loved you that moment when
one eye focused enough to
discern a shape from apple and
flowers and water glass with straw and a
yellow jug of something to be throw out.

I have a thought that
mingles from time to moment to
time and back again in a
fog over blue ice yellowed;

a cold thought haunting
and careful not to reveal itself to
me before I am ready.

I’d tell you she
loved me too, I know, love
comes in whispers, in the moments
before the silence. It can gently grasp for
one more hug of sorrow.

I wish to keep
me from my moment of
clarity, and the place that
makes you cry.

Napkins

She hides behind her long
flannel skirt, secret and secluded with
a sheepish grin not to be forgotten she
struggles to make the coffee shop
before the bus, but this is going to
be one of those days, and the bus is
passing while she gathers her change
and napkins from a tin she drags
across the counter
in the little shop, burning one hand, digging
with another, lint collects under
her fingernails newly painted and
now chipped on lipstick cases;
the revolving door of vanity
circles through her pocketbook, the elusive
dime succumbs to the index finger and she
places it on the counter to finish the
transaction;

she burns her lip with a
nervous sip as the next customer
walks over her high heels scuffing
the toe, she ignores the intrusion and forces
the heavy door open to the street still
polluted by the fumes of public
transportation; the tail lights down
two blocks tease her ill timed actions, and
now she is left to wait with the cup drooling
hot mocha over its lip slowly
burning the lifeline off her
right hand, napkins sill in her left
useless and crumpled,

she fidgets in her nylons crooked
and riding up as her heels dig into
small pits in the concrete under a faded
bus stop sign;
then without malice
that time of the month shows up warm
and unwanted, though relieved she is
not pregnant again, perhaps;

the coffee
has cooled to satisfaction and soothes
and shrouds what is painful and embarrassing as
she walks home to change and call in sick before
a new bus can tempt her into urban slavery.

California Dreaming

the moon shines through
your window again, and
you turn to the wall pretending
it’s not there, save for
the glow illuminating the
cursed yellow walls; nobody
paints bedrooms yellow unless
they’re going to be
awake all night all cranked
up on some crap like caffeine or
coke; playing with the kid’s Legos
while they are forced to
bed with a story, your cup of
coffee and cigarette smoke still
lingering hazy over
Bob the Builder sheets; even he
knows the crimes you’ve
committed tonight; yet you
toss and turn under the
silk you bought in case a
lover should emerge from
the paneling at Rudy’s on
Thursdays, when they have
two for ones and half price
chicken wings; still on
your breath and a doggie bag in
the fridge, cooling next to
the bottle of JD; because in the
summer you like to drink it cold - ice
waters it down, the
neater the better, like the house,
which is clean enough
for now, but could still
use a good bulldozer to rid
yourself of all those Sunday
papers filled with the
jobs you won’t get because
of lack of experience; so much
for the diploma - proven useless
in this economy; and the moon
still comes and goes each month, like the
wallflowers from Rudy’s stepping over
the truck and action figures
in the hallway on the way to
silk and walls painted yellow...