Friday, July 6, 2018

Timothy Stand By

Sitting cloudly
I had the impression of a character
fast on his feet,  between a job
in a hotel of woodpeckers
promising, seriously promising
to open each of the screens
but like everything unknown to the heart
what one only knew appeared
like woodchips in a thunderclap
and then a very fine rain
reduced even the owner
of a beautiful young smile
and even more, attractively
long legs with minor scratches
to bottom muck and drinking up
a New York township
that gave up their belief
just to touch
baffled strangers and policemen
by dropping bones and brussel
sprouts from a midnight blue
not sure why but only for the joy
of it
another woman
a tuna fish sandwich
an ocean floor
a loving, caring person
waiting for the light to change
became confidently determined
to try this again

Friday, June 8, 2018

Light a Rocket

This is a really long story so just skim through the lengthy parts.
I was just invested in a long parenthetical kiss, the kind that gives
off a pleasant order and drags the invisible children over the molten
possibilities of life without asking to lessen one’s anonymity.
Like I said this is a lengthy story.  I noticed that my heart
was dropped kicked around the operating room floor.
It was in a paper bag wrapped Dickensonesque.
But I hate when people complain don’t you? 
Well there was Steffen, who I replaced.  He ran
off with an older woman.   And Marjorie who thought
she was a miracle and could only talk in radiating episodes.
This whole poem is backfiring.  Yesterday I drove
past a field of Christmas trees and felt like a reformed prince.
And when it started snowing, albeit lightly, I felt like a saint
for several seconds.  I stopped the car and turned off my wiper-blades.
I was crying a little because I knew that most of the saints
have been martyred, which is a bad thing, unless you’re in high school.
 Then all the kids gather around, pat you on the back,
and call you a hero.  I rolled down the window and a few flakes fell in.
I could not spend another long second here because my family would
send out a search party.  I had to get back
which wasn’t bad, but every now and then I make a mess
 of things and spend a lot of time making checkmarks.
Anyways, I had just parted lips with the stewardess, but it’s o.k
she’s my wife and has nice curves.  It was nice to be up in the air,
in a rocket with delicate curtains.  I charted where we were.
I smiled so calmly I was able to notice the man with the bomb
tucked underneath his seat.  He didn’t notice me or anything,
but I good at noticing things like that.  I think I’ll wink.

Saturday, May 12, 2018

In Search of John Popsun

The Alps Go out from here. 
We dropped our baskets 
And went out hunting. 
There was incredulous 
Love making. 
We heard things from the hereafter. 
We commandeered safe passage 
Out through the rolling Atlantic. 
We heard of an attractive hand
At the firing range 
That drew in the pack of hyenas,
A few of us responded with a 
Map of the constellations 
Others began to desire 
Brilliant foliage 
And a few bills in their bill fold. 
We were waiting for it to get cold, 
For it to snow, to go out looking 
Through the snowy streets of New England, 
And found that 
This is not such a crazy place 
For a famous hat, 
In Hartford.

Snow Watching

God, I hate my shallowness
and my chemiluminesence
the planted maple and native oak
the snow burst that might out live us
The fabular and urbane
I hate my invasion of space
like a spell that comes apart
and flakes misplace
The stick and smiling streams
and lawns
that somehow, O recreation
in the destination of the laundry
dampens in the wash
and the paper
before the evening sees before
the relaxed windows
the leaves that reveal their underneath
in the wind at a stand still.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

No Title

Octavio Paz was following me.
A sum dum sore shadow
Night brazen against street lamp
Projecting the projector
In negative, an errie other worldly self
I turn in a turn onto ties to see
The beautiful eyes that never
Made it into his poetry 
The beautiful irises that
Held and beheld stone and smoke
I don't mind he, following me
Like that in books, like that
In other shadows creeping around
Just Stopping in time to plop down, flop 
Down, yes sir, real mind boggling 
Of who do that, who do what?
Sore cheek bones, and the groans
Moans of fine pursuit 
That turns onto itself, constantly 
Like dark and deep waters in the dark
And deep thinking of a spangled sea

Octavia Paz was following me.

Monday, June 12, 2017

A Language for the Unknown

When your name came across the loud speaker
I stepped away from the truck stop to listen.
Yep! That was your name alright, except with
an unusual rolling of the “r.”  I thought you’d
materialize like a narcotic vapor over one
after waking out of a fainting spell.
A butterfly came down and I kissed it.
I guess that was what I was supposed to do
on the sidewalk, in the moonlight,
with the large trees budding.
A Frisbee landed out in the field
and two pidgins clamored after it.
I handed them each a dollar.
I started to feel you were lost somewhere.
That somewhere misplaced was the luggage
that held your beautifully folded arms.
I reached down for your razor,
followed an onion to your feet,
its core pealed down to the tearful end.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

My Quiet Witness

Sometimes I wonder whether
my watery eyes or my knee ache
is because I kicked out the crutches
from some poor lass or was a good runner
who cheated.  The light keeps blinking
like cat in a bag drowning after my father
driving away from his wife, my mother
losing her license, my brother
unable to breathe at the end.
The whole bathroom sinking.
Giving us no other substitute.
A spyglass hoping to be evident.
A curl in the middle of a book
separating the epic tug after we’ve
been digging through the music.
God, sometimes I wish I’d be
forgiven long enough to sit down
on the rock I’ve been stitching
and convey the worn reason
the remainder of the night
looks at us with labyrinthine
perplexion. Or the real remembrance
 of things past and not some inability to translate
the title beats down on our canvas hearts,
but that is enough drumming for me tonight. 

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Into Evening

The involuntary
               platform appears
the steel rain departs
       florist advise
 the hidden heart
             erupting deaf
    the minnows break
                   the stirring water
    the sun diving
  in darts
            hold onto the air
    Amid the evening
                    other flashes

Wednesday, December 21, 2016


I need to say something soon before
my voice becomes a muffle and then
like stones in the stream bed.  The tips
of the hydrangea flowerets are blue
paint curls in the heart, color gently
flakes at the center.  Then comes the white
hot feeling of rolling an ankle over a stone.
Pollen dusts over the face of a stream.
The last stars from a crater of stars pass overhead.
I think, tonight, but the limitless
blue message of thought keeps passing me
like a downed plane flapping its baleful
advertisement.  Its impact like a good
person who cannot live up to an expectancy.
The letter carrier carries the apology.
I want to report the disappearance
to the milkman, but he is gone.
He has no business here.