“The Universe’s Way”

The people who cause you to drink
probably think you’re funny
and not really upset
and that only drunks wait 
outside the liquor store
a few minutes before it opens.

They don’t know the stress
they tighten on you like a sneaker
on an oversized foot,
swollen from sickness,
only for you to feel even worse
when they get hurt
from you telling them to fuck off.

It all makes you wonder 
if in a past life you were 
a Nazi or a serial killer,
and this is the universe’s way
of teaching you some guilt
lives longer than the memories
that try their damnedest to forget
how to swim in the cheapest whisky.

Flat Tire

In the auto repair shop waiting room 
local tv talk show hosts sit on love seats
practicing cream puff journalism

The closed caption is way out of sync
but the special guest is in the pink

She’s talking about emotional awareness
triggers, techniques, and feeling wheels

Let’s find your color on the chart
Ron Burgundy

She says emotions are universal
everybody has some

recognize and accept yours
but know they are fleeting

learn how to ride ‘em out
identify what’s bugging you
and try to feel pretty

Is this a children's show 
for adults?

Validate your needs
don’t stuff ‘em in a box

and don’t go away while we break 
for commercial

windows, doors, and laminate floors
boner pills, neuropathy cures, liposuction
carnival cruises, dental implants

and now we’re back
with depression strategies
anxiety attacks
and more happy talk about
how to cuddle your heart

Wow, thanks for that!

I had no idea I was so out of touch

And now I’m suddenly aware
of the woman with a tired face

she looks deflated 
like she might need a puppy

or a chocolate chip cookie
or a brand new life

And there’s a stack of old magazines
on the coffee table

but the newspaper is fresh

dirt about fraud, politics
culture wars
trade wars
drug wars
real wars
artificial stupidity
unbelievable lies
and government sleaze 

It’s almost overwhelming

Maybe I’m dreaming

I don’t know what color to feel
in this new dark age

Something’s sadly out of whack

My emotional wheel is flat

Excuse me sir, your car is ready.



In The Department Of Galactic Efficiency

It was a champagne night

so we poured the moon into a flute
until the stars began to fizz

We were locked in

There was no outer space
in our hearts

Every kiss was efficient

Not a drop of love was wasted

in the government of us.

Basement Nocturne


In a cradle of damp concrete
The life-sodden moths were born
Wrapped in grey furs, these midwives of mould
Make static of the breathless cellar air
Eternal infants beat at every window 
Each collision eliciting
Another burst of dust 
As they tear themselves apart
Trying to reach the light 

You should never have had to share that air with them 
No person should
In that still-born underground
That confusion of life
Where the pale violence of moonlight
Forms a thousand crucifixes 
Against the glass oubliette of the sky 

The Welder’s Tarantella

In their sleep, the dancers are still dancing, in the same way as, thirty-five years on, I still dream of welding cars. It’s hard to believe, but I was strong then, without a scintilla of spare flesh, tossing sheets of pressed metal with the grace of a Big Top juggler, and writing them with fire into contracts of roar and motion. I animated myself with drugs and fresh oranges, blood red wine and melting steel, until there was nothing but ache and scar tissue, parchment-thin around an accident waiting to happen, and then … I was an anonymous shape in a danse macabre, singing plainchant in pig Latin, my body plucked away by crows. I was a weathered carving on the spandrel of a ruined cathedral. I was paper caught in the branches of a centuries-old yew. So, I know so well how dancers dream, as my sleeping body twists its unconscious rhythms, as if it was a bright banner flapping at an abandoned circus.

My sister and I learn about Elvis

The gravestone of his mother Gladys 
has a Star of David on it designed 
by the King of Rock & Roll.
Imagine, we text, Elvis! Elvis! 
His great-great (two greats, we count)
grandmother Nancy was a Jewess 
from Lithuania, which makes Elvis
(by laws only Jews know) a Jew.
Weird, Elvis counts more than Einstein, 
Marx or Leonard Cohen but let’s face it:
The King's one of those eternal
mysteries our people need.  

Playground Wars of the 1980’s
 
you start with a solid battleground
we used the giant slab of cement
at the Oak Hill playground
that served as two full size basketball courts
you need twenty or so kids
stupid enough to think this would be fun
you need fireworks
and lighters – empty beer bottles
 
each team takes up one full court
and assembles their battle lines
back line – bottle rockets (aka missiles)
middle line – roman candles (aka mortars)
front line – firecrackers and sparklers (aka in the shit)
 
Rules of engagement:
    1. You must stay on your court
    2. You must stay in your lines (no front-line bottle rockets)
    3. Learn how to dodge

somehow
4No eyes or fingers were lost
No cops showed up
cracks and pops
flower-bloom explosions
crossed in the summer night
ten minutes
of teenagers exalting in utter chaos
there should’ve been a fourth rule

    4. Do not wear mesh crop tops

but this was the eighties
and everyone wore them
and sparklers stuck in the holes
and my brother screamed and jumped around
and that fiery emission of heat and light
burned a hole into his armpit
and mom was going to find out
 
He was able to hide that scar for years
well into adulthood
it helped
that mesh crop tops
fell out of fashion

Coloring Trivialities

 
I care a little more
To whistle more.
I wrap my love
Like a hug of
Musical uproar.
You are in caring June
Like a moon on wire,
Where a tightrope walker
Walks,
There lies a shade
Of security.
It is a mystery to stray away
But discoveries are like
Wandering boots
That gets heavy.
I am a word twister,
You are a blended bloom
Of turning trivialities to color.

Grow Up

 
When will I grow up
A boy asked his dad
When you dare say anything
You want, the father responded

When will I grow up
The boy again asked his mom
When you won’t say what you want
The mother explained

The boy grew up and wondered
Which parent was right, until
He realizes it doesn’t matter
For his world is grown up

 

Happiness

only exists because
you come to bed naked,

the tips of your nipples
like new buds on a bush

or small, ripening berries,
the kind of true miracle

that led Keats to give up
his medical studies

and become a poet.

Toast
     for Ron Padgett

What can I say?
Taking another sip 
of coffee, I keep
trying to decipher
the chirps and chatter
of the birds 
frantically yelling 
at each other outside 
my open windows.
The morning remains 
darker than this cup.
Or maybe I’ve closed
my eyes in concentration.
To heighten certain senses.
To focus my attention.
Whatever I’m doing, 
it doesn’t appear
to be working.
I’m as terrible
at eavesdropping
as these birds 
are at “singing.”
I’m the worst spy. 
Or else I’m not 
really their audience.
The only thing
I know for sure is,
everybody needs to relax. 
Well I do, anyway.