Cooking Lessons

As the only
one of his large
extended family to
make it past the eighth
grade, he was a major
outlier. Was one who
actually had all
of his teeth,
spoke in complete
sentences and could
read the board from
the back row which
many of his kin might
have been able to do
but were disinclined
to let anyone catch
them doing. By 16
he’s never been arrested,
been drunk and disorderly,
or had a kid or two,
with others on the way,
which made him a freak
of nature as far as anyone
who knew the family history
could tell. Guidance
counselors and teachers
thought the kid actually
had an academic future,
had seen the wisdom
of doing well at his studies
as a means to gainful
employment. Were thrilled
he aced his chemistry exams
and suggested he might start
thinking about which colleges
he would apply to, which
caused him to laugh long
and hard. “I already learned
all I need to know.” Dropped out
after his junior year and opened
his own meth lab determined
not to blow his ass off
like so many of his kind had
before him.

Turnaround

 
It wasn’t
a wonderful start
to Friday.
Leavv clobbered
my eye
with his racquet
this morning
and it
swelled up
like an apricot
a few hrs.
later.
Then I tried
supporting
a new local
coffee joint
but they raped
my checking acct.
w/ a $9 dollar
pour over.
It was an
expensive month –
I sent 
a $2000 dollar check
to the IRS,
begrudgingly.
My realtor
notified me
while I drained
my mediocre coffee
that I couldn’t afford
anything
in Southern California.
Great news
with a kid
on the way.
Then,
things brightened.
I opened
the sunniest email
I’d ever received.
A novella
I’d poured
my blood,
guts,
and sweat
into
was accepted
for publication.
I stepped out
of the coffee joint
and the sun
beamed its spotlight
on me
sucking me
up
like a UFO.
I finally
understood
what it meant
to soar
close to
the sun. 

Faith

 
I’m often jealous
of the staunchly faithful
a powerful belief
unwavering

omniscient presence
felt
but not seen
a watcher
among the clouds

I struggle
to believe
in your existence

I struggle
to believe
in my own

If I Had a Cat's 9 Lives 

 

I would live the first three to hide

under the bed, in the laundry room,

or under the Volvo parked 

in an unpaved driveway.

 

When it came time for me to shed that

scary cat skin,only because someone kind fed me,

I would venture across lawns to hunt.

 

Perhaps the next few lives would be lived

close to where I hid, but a tad more in the open

letting strangers extend a tentative hand 

for me to brush against.

Then perhaps, I would let them scratch my nose.

 

In my fifth life, 

I would take to the alleys 

and mark my territory

allowing no one in, 

and sharpen my claws 

against the tired oaks.

 

Then skinny, hungry, and winter weary, 

I may purr those lingering last lives

in a home where children pull at my mangy tail, 

while I am skittish on catnip.

 

But, that ninth life, 

I am saving for you,  

who have crossed borders,  

witnessed well, lived fruitfully,  

and know the importance 

of a warm and welcoming lap.

Lofty perspective 
Crumbling cookie of wonder
Turn away self reflective

Trees scent the air
Our hamburger lives asunder
Scarlet smell of hair

Feet like roots twist
Moveable loan feast plunder
Matrix blushing kiss

Eyes quickening heartbeat
Age upon age our bodies thunder
Longing fruition joy complete 
---

Leelanau Red


“Leelanau red, Leelanau red,”
I chanted silently in my head,
noticing the bottle of cheap wine
on the shelf at Peninsula Liquors,
channeling the old 1970’s song about the guy who’ll
“steal your woman, then he’ll rob your head,”
but really, to us kids, a pot song, Panama Red
a buzz term like Acapulco Gold;
a song by the New Riders of the Purple Sage.

It brought back memories from my youth
in northern Michigan, summers smoking joints,
guzzling cheap wine up here in MAGA land.
They’d always been gun-toting, flag-waving “patriots,”
long before Timothy McVeigh and the Michigan militia,
at least a generation or two before Trump came along.

I remembered the guy in the pickup truck
pointing his pistol at us on the beach,
calling us “dirty longhaired hippies,”
boasting about having served his country in ’Nam.
Lorie, Chet’s girlfriend, screamed at him,
both frightened and outraged.
“You murderer! Pig! Get out of here!”

The guy sneered but put his gun away,
went back to his truck.
Lorie’d been fearsome;
bullies always turning out to be cowards.
“You doin’ both of these guys, girlie?
Or I bet ain’t neither of them’s got any balls anyway.”
Then he peeled away in a screech of rubber.

“Can I help you?”
the young woman behind the counter asked.
I put down the bottle of Leelanau wine.
“Can you recommend a good Riesling?”

Twenty Years


Twenty years
I've been
writing poetry.

Over 20 actually.

I think I wrote my
first one in '99.

I ask myself;

am I any wiser ?
am I richer ?

Fuck no !

But, still I keep
doing it, again,
and again, and
( you guessed it)
again.

I still don't know if
it's a gift or a curse

Three Alarm


Joseph Brodsky!
My first alarm,
I sing to your discarded cigarette filters,
your broken samovar, your Brooklyn cafes.
Across decades I look out from your
unknown future.

Charles Bukowski!
My mirror of failure,
I sing to your bowery, your handicapping
algebra, to your San Pedro lifestyle and
chicory cigarettes.  I call to you from
out the vagueness of eternity, imploring
you not to try. 

Richard Hugo!
My symphony of resemblance,
I sing to your overworked Duwamish,
to your Chevrolet miles through
Big Sky Country, and the taverns you
have forsaken to save one year. 

Man’s mind, stretched by new ideas, 
never retakes original shape.

Hear these words, O my deities, and sing.

Sort of a Sage



Andy Warhol

got it

sideways

when he said,

“In the future,

everyone

will be famous

for fifteen minutes.”

Well, the future

is here

and it turns out

everyone

is famous

for fifteen people,

duration

to be

determined




 

3:15 a.m.


It should be the big things but it isn’t.


Crossing a flood to say goodbye


or your hand on a withered body


when everything is gone.


It should be these things


and others like them.


Betrayal.


Horrible outcomes from horrible luck.


Love that never happened.


It should be something like that.


But it is only the empty night


with morning swinging toward you like a fist.


The commonplace horrors are still horrors.


These things are the things that gut you,


fast and slow.


I can see it in your eyes.


I imagine you can see it in mine.

THE FUTURE OF PHOTOGRAPHS

 
Decades worth of photo albums tumble
Out of a garbage truck into the landfill,
Exposed to the sun, with wind seizing the
Heavy pages as they open among the rest
Of the useless trash of no interest at all
Even to the seagulls who flock and spiral,
Overhead squawking at anything that moves,
Constantly looking for edible morsels
Which are not to be found amidst the
Personal history of a single old man of
No importance who has died at last
Leaving behind too much stuff which
Was never of any value to anyone save
Himself and now his body is in the oven
And his photos will be viewed by rats.