Mercy

L.A. burn fields
only the rich able to rebuild,

but they're moving away...
their anger generating smoke statues.

The poor aching
for another place to call home.

The middle class praying
for vengeance.

The land opening its mouth
for unimpeded rain.



Sundown

Armies
all over the world.

Different languages
in the same flesh.

Murderous kings.



Beating It to Death

Crowds clapping
for the end,

a long long time
generation after generation.

The drums wearing out
hands and hearts.

Naming Trump


After the shuffle there always is
The deal. Then bidding is done and won.
There comes a time early in the game
When the question must be asked
And answered, "What is trump?"
After the posturing and puffery
It is time to declare the suit--certainly
No spades, and definitely not hearts.
Better to be diamonds or clubs.

When the hand is to be played out,
Cards laid on the table, each in its turn.
Strategy would be nice; also to remember
Previous tricks played and how each
Player tries to deceive or finesse.
There will be a winner--and losers.   
__________

This Old House


There it is.
Black and white.
Graffiti sprayed large
Black on white.

“Speak the
Truth, even if
Your voice
Shakes.”

It is spray painted black,
Toxic on asbestos shakes.
Long vacant, its blank stairs
Peek through weeds and neglect.

Plywood patches, plied where
Glass used to be. Shingles curl
Asphalt sneers. Rain gutters weep,
Leaking yesterday’s tears.

This house speaks on mute,
Beckons, in its squalid vibrato,
Of better times gone, when
It was a home to hearth and hope.

Now, here it stands still, vacant,
Inhabited by the homeless. Empty
Except for the hollow men who
Sleep rough on hardluck floors.

This house speaks its truth
To anyone who will see it.

In the gray of the invisible,
Inhabited by its vacated truth.

Soul Rain


It takes time
To grieve freely,
Find peace in sorrow,
Spread wings, cover sky,
Pour darkness, weep loudly.
To liquefy in no man's place
Remember loss, cry bitterly,
Open lips, shout to sea,
See you,
Correct oneself after seeing,
Wipe eyes with tears,
Fill body with light by lifting 
Dead lamp under feet,
Complete sentences,
Palpate face, body, remember organs.
Not my way,
Not a crop I want to grow,
Clouds never left,
Life was destroyed by heavy rain.
Breath lost
Eyelids fluttered,
Suffering collected
In missed breath.
Go into hiding, shed tears like flowers,
Sprout fresh.
If pain not felt mentally,
Become human.

     Friend Requests 


It's strange to see friend
requests on Facebook 
from people who always 
treated me like dirt.
About thirty -five  years ago .

What's happening ?
Is it a gathering of 
the wagons ?

A nostalgic fight against 
time itself ?

Against death, of course.

Or are they nice people, and 
I'm a cynical old man ?

Sophia 


Reality has an identity 

A union of opposites
That
Echoes 
Through time
In sin waves

A mathematical symphony 
Of metaphysical truth

Waffle House

Lee Greenwood sings
“I’m proud to be an American,”
Waffle House filled
with patriotism
two months after 9-11
images still way too fresh
the flames
the disbelief
the collapse of what we thought
we knew.
The juke box transports
home and hope this morning
guitar riffs
sizzling bacon
sausage patties and home fries
hot coffee hot grits and hot waffles
everywhere.
The silver-haired cook
who’d seen
a few battles of his own
sings along
waves his steel spatula
punctuates the air
the song
the morning--
dancing like a boxer
after a victorious bout
he raises both arms
throws his head back
and finishes with Lee:
“God bless
the USA!”

Not Bad at All

 
I take back everything I said about those giant jellyfish. These days, a lot of things happen fast, but slow, so like a freak accident, it’s hard to know whether you’re awash in the bubbly hubbub or merely inundated by a hoodoo brouhaha. Normally, I like to eliminate all my unnecessary synapses, and trim down to bantamweight. Well, that explains a lot, said Comrade Milktoast, whose sole claim to fame is a reasonably sized collection of dayglo mood rings and a couple of Stalinist houseplants. After the police arrived with their pesky batons, I explained that we were using only the good bacteria, and that there was nothing to worry about. Except perhaps, for the experimental, woolly bully chili cheese dogs.  Let me be the judge of that, said the cop with the two, gold front teeth, as he grabbed one of the tube steaks out of my three-fingered hand and took a slobbery bite. Not bad, he smiled. Not bad at all.

Touches of Expression

I think it’s marvelous
to pause between the readings.
Like the gaps between your touch
the memory figures out the shore,
and our embraces in the bed
finds a reading table instead.
I celebrate the celibacy,
the rarefaction between you and me
is so literary,
lost between the fingers.
This poem on the other hand
is against celibacy,
I think physical relation
is also literary,
once brought in
the touches of expression. 

heavy cream:

you can substitute the
heavy cream
in a béchamel
but it's not the same
like a dream from youth
richer, fuller, harder to justify—
lap it up while you can