Walking the Fine Line

The street has an illness,
Its phlegm-filled spittle on my shoes,
Its hot, choleric breath filling my lungs.
I am weary of its sickness.

Every eye is bound to this slowly unfolding Hell.
Close them, and you pay double the price.
Scars on the sidewalk
Move their filmy lips
And talk to the scars behind your eyes.
The droll stories they tell
Rattle your brain like a cage.

Tongue moving beyond your control,
Asking, always asking,
"Can't I be removed?
Can't I escape?"
Shapes dissolve into worries,
Your heart no longer floating
On saintly logic, but sinking
In the vomitus of that same saint.
All one can do is plough forward,
Dragging ones heavy heart, suffocating
Ones hysteric brain, till both depart
Of their own accord.

On Reciting Poetry

Some have come to listen,
Some have come to mock.
Do not speak to either sort--
Give your voice to God.

Vagabond

The man on the side of the road
Was left stranded by his own desires.
Now he seeks to return to
A place he's never been.
And as the horizon melts the sun
Away (as his memory does
To all his lofty questions),
He finds himself like a shadow in the dark,
Answering all the riddles of the stars.

The Reaping

Here where I lie, watching your body rise
Into the new day, need and desire
Become one and the same.
I feast my eyes, for my lust is good,
Good as any hunger that bade me eat.
Yours are the fruits of the celestial garden
Where I have sown all my life
All my life, and now, as my hands
Explore your body, as if searching for a grip
To lift my soul out of the abyss,
Now that the light hits your cheek
So gently, now let us share
In the reaping.

Directions

Take a left turn.
You will pass a graveyard
On your right,
Then an apple orchard
And a big red barn with a sign out front
Reading, "Cows are Sacred."
When you get to a road called
"Lonely Ape Road," take a right.
This road diverges around an
Ancient Indian burial mound,
On top of which General Custer
Sits smoking a pipe and playing a lyre.
Take the left road.
You'll be driving uphill several miles
Through an old forest full of grimacing trees
And you'll come around a bend to face
Five old men sitting in the road.
They'll ask for change, and advice.
Give them neither.
Keep driving.
At the top of the mountain is an
Old gas station.
Stop here.
Go inside and ask
The old, ashen-faced lech behind the counter
For directions.

The Mother Load

The ocean of my love is filled with
Monstrous creatures. Those who enter
Are liable to lose a limb!
But they do all come, donning
Their high-tech scuba gear,
In search of the treasure.
And some actually do find pieces of gold
Here and there, and those that do
Naturally come back for more.
But no one knows where the mother load lies,
Not even me.
My guess is that it's somewhere in the chasms
Where no light can ever reach.
If I ever found it, though,
I wouldn't hoard it,
But lug it to the surface
For all the world to see.

Sonderkommando

1.
They chose me because I was strong, as my father
Was before me.
Since I was fifteen I'd spent my summers
Loading crates at his kosher meat packaging plant--

The largest in Germany.

The wealth of my father and the love

Of my mother made me strong.

The work put that strength to practice.

Now I spend my days lifting the bodies

Of the weak and unpracticed to their graves.

Children I carry like sacks of grain

Over my shoulder, thin young women

With graceful limbs,

And feeble old men with grainy skin and

Long white beards.

These soulless forms now consume my soul.

It used to be that we sent the bodies

To the crematorium.

Over a thousand bodies a day could be disintegrated

In these fiery chambers,

But that is no longer enough.

Now the bodies are burned on pyres,

Hundreds at a time.

The officers festively gather round

To watch these burnings,

Drinking greedily from bottles of wine,

Laughing jokingly, warming their hands

On the fire.

We too watch as long as we can

Until the officers order us back

To work.

We watch the flames consume the bodies,

Often with faces familiar to us,

And consider how the fire has long since

Gone out in our own souls,

Consider how our flesh seems also

To have long ago burned away,

The well of our tears dried up.

In truth, we are nothing but bones.

2.

When I was young I was blindly proud

To be a Jew.

I taught my gentile friends Yiddish words

And shared my father's phylacteries for show and tell.

My mother worried, but my father assured her

All was well.

Some are victimized for that which is arbitrary

And some for that which is innate,

But it is through victimization that

The arbitrary becomes innate.

And such it was with my Judaism.

I was not a true Jew until the first stone hit my face...

I was leaving school late, as I

Always did, having stayed for extra help,

And the boys, all of whom

Had once been my friends,

Had waited for me in ambush.

"Get the Christ killer!" they shouted,

Throwing stones. I was certain

They did not see the irony in this,

So instead of pleading my case, I ran.

I ran with fear, yes, but mostly

With anger as my fuel--anger towards

The boys who chased me, anger

At myself, and anger at

The Jews.

The Jews who tried to immerse

Themselves in a society that would never embrace them

No matter how much of their past they denied,

Who preached tolerance and understanding,

When neither existed for them.

I seemed to harden with each stride,

My blood more vile with each beat of my heart.

At a main thoroughfare, I crossed the road,

Hoping to waylay my pursuers.

Glancing over my shoulder I saw them

Aiming at me from the sidewalk,

But I didn't see the black Mercedes

As it rammed into me and sent

Me flying into the pavement.

"Let's get out of here! Go!" I heard

The boys yell.

Dazed, I sat up and saw them fleeing

And then, as one is awakened by a bell on Sunday morning,

I heard the clear, beautiful voice of a woman

Asking me if I was OK.

Looking up, I saw a woman just past

Her prime in looks, whose eyes were subdued not by

Excess of life, but by wisdom,

And whose beautiful, sensuous mouth

Was serious--perched with concern.

Having assured her that I was fine, she

Helped me up and offered me a ride.

Then she noticed the bruise on my face.

"Those boys were throwing stones at you," she said.

I nodded and she asked me why.

(Had she not looked so much like my mother,

I may have lied.)

When I told her, her features collapsed

Then hardened with the surety of pain.

A car behind us honked,

So we got in her car and drove away.

She said she wanted to show me something

Before she drove me home.

She took me to her home--

A sixteenth century mansion on the outskirts

Of town. She showed me room

After immaculate room, every wall covered

With paintings her grandfather, a Jew, had painted.

His name was Abraham Schulman.

He married Gretta Scheinman, a poor gentile,

And she converted. He saw to it

That she was surrounded by books

And high culture.

One day, Abraham was leaving a lecture

On Mendel and Jewish philosophy

When he was stabbed and killed by extremists.

"Jews have had to work twice as hard," she said,

"And will continue to. For you see,

In order for us to survive,

We must thrive."

3.

Her body was light,

But it seemed a heavy burden to carry

And place upon the wooden pyre.

As the fire spread, I watched her face,

Disquieted, permanently baffled.

The words of a prayer lay somewhere

In the back of my throat,

But it would not come forth.

Instead it wrapped itself around my heart,

Protecting it, and keeping it a little more distant

From the world.

Whirling Dervish

She was last seen twirling down route 94
By the newspaper delivery men
Fully dressed in dervish costume
At four thirty in the morning.
Having driven down the road,
The police have confirmed that she either entered
The woods, or was picked up along the way.
But knowing Rita, I think it was something else entire.

She always spoke of Heaven, and how one day
She would find it.
The dervishes believe that if they spin fast enough,
They will take off
And reach the Home of the Soul.
Rita held the secret of this miracle in her eyes.
When I think of her now, I can see her
Whirling up from the dark hills
Toward Heaven, past the stars
Which play like children in the Earth-bound sky.

Electric Woman

Dark house silhouetted against a violet sky.
Within, on dusty wooden floorboards,
The electric woman dances.
Made of purple light,
She waves her emerald shawl
Of living silk that breathes
A thousand singing voices in harmony.
Awake, I watch from my window
Across the street, holding on tight to my blanket,
Trying not to sleep.

Between Silence and Sound

Between the mighty ocean of sound
And the bubbling freshet of silence
Lie the craggy peaks of chaos.

I have taken the journey across,
But not on wings.
With each step, I felt
The pains of doubt and recrimination.

It was in these waters
That I gave voice to the silence
And solemnity to sound.

Spring Descends

I feel as if I could spark a fire
Under your breath
And dine with wisdom
Until there is no knowledge left.
Becoming more savage than a child
Torn from the breast,
I ease my way into the noble disease
Perfected by centuries of masochism.
Where, oh where, will the Spring descend?
Upon the expectant graves
Or upon this, the awakening page?

Haven

I am slowly stuffing my life
Into a bag
And concocting dreams for money.

(The sun offers up gifts each morning,
Redeeming the Earth for my waking eyes.)

The more I trespass into the haven
Of musical bounty,
The more I am left parched for the nectar of song.

Begone, muse! Lift
Your shadow of light
Before my retinas burn!

Disciplining the Poem

I'm sweating worms trying to
Keep this poem alive.
But the words are like stubborn children
That keep storming off the page.
I'm trying to keep the verbs in line,
But they're pathologically obsessed
With the objects, who are weeping
Because they're jealous of the subjects.
What they need is some sort of loud diversion
To capture their attention.
Some teachers will whistle.
Being a poet, inserting the word "God"
Will do the trick!

The Coffee Mug

I came to learn about the connection
Between mind and body,
To learn from one of the great masters
Of the yogic teachings,
But I can't seem to get my mind
Off of the coffee mug
Atop the gray foam yoga block
In front of him on the floor.
It is so simple--white, curved, ceramic,
Steaming from what I suspect is the herbal tea inside it.
It, like me, is breathing ever so gently,
But evenly--I can almost hear it purr.
It emanates such calm.
All of this information being sent my way from the master
I cannot receive.
All I will ever be able to recall
Is the steam emanating from this coffee mug--
Its perfect breath, and its
Dying warmth.

Upon Seeing the Artist at a Cafe

In his repose, he is straining for something great.
In his languidness, there is something fierce.
Always eyes that are watching,
Searching for flaws and beauty.
He wears his calm as a disguise.
Inside, he is restless,
Running up to higher ground
To escape the fire consuming his soul.
One corner of his mouth always rises in a gentle smile
Whenever we happen to lock eyes.
"Life isn't easy for us spies," he seems to say.
Knowing that he is only half serious,
I nod my head and carry on my way.

5 AM

There is a fly that keeps landing on my ear
As I try and sleep.
I am watching the digital clock on the floor--
The numbers seem to tell the story of my life.
I try reading them backwards to see
If that too will have some meaning.
But I find myself simply going
Back and forth, and soon
I am dizzy.
The alarm will sound soon,
And I haven't had a wink of sleep.
I turn and look at that little brass Buddha
On my nightstand.
It is weeping honey.

Ark

There are eels in the soup--somebody call Wildlife Emergency Services!
Besides, the strawberries are crawling with spiders,
And the possum is enjoying a bag of Tostitos
On my living room couch.
He's trying to figure out the remote
And is throwing a tantrum.
Monkeys are raiding the liquor cabinet
And I'm afraid the orangutan will start shaking the baby
If it doesn't stop crying from the frogs
In its diaper.
Where did all these animals come from?
My eldest daughter let them in
Along with the Jehova's Witness
And Noah, who came with him.

Breaking the Ice

Donning a neck tie and drinking a spritzer,
Standing away from the gasps and the laughter,
Our hero is peering through the block of ice
That separates him from the lovely dame
Dressed in bulls-eye red across the room.
Perhaps, if he stares hard enough,
The ice will melt, like taking it within his hands
And melting it with the warmth of his skin.
But no, levity is his gift,
And he'll wield is like a pick
As he makes his way across the room
Thinking of something to say.
Finally, he is near her--
She's standing aloof, though the smell of
Her perfume shows that she is anything but.
"Hello," he says.
She turns to him--she is cross-eyed.
His heart turns to ice.
"Hello," she says.
The ice is broken.

Disillusionment

I have folded back my eyes
And eloped with my ears.
I have welcomed humanity as a gift
And accepted the daily news as the word of God.
I have gasped the death-defying gasp,
Awakening from sleep, forsaking my dreams.
How hard we fight to live!
And yet, how easy it is to simply be.
Someone, or something, is playing a trick on us.
This is what we tell ourselves,
Knowing full well that it is we ourselves
Who are the tricksters.

God's Apprentice

Often, I am asked the question,
"What do you do for a living?"
I always say, "I am God's apprentice."
Naturally, this always arouses quizzical responses.
"What does that entail?" I am asked.
"I bring Him tea when He is thirsty,
Food when He is hungry,
And I learn how to create worlds."
"You can't make worlds, silly man!" I am always told.
But I can, and I will,
As soon as God lets me go
Out on my own.
It's not a hard thing to understand.
Each life holds the potential for infinite worlds,
And if we're lucky, by the time we die,
One will have been consummated.

The Shower Drain

I have been standing in the shower the last
Fifteen minutes, watching the water spin its way
Down the drain.
I have not washed my body.
I have not washed my hair.
I am just standing, my chin rested on my chest,
Watching the drain.
As an object in of itself,
It is fairly simple:
A round metal disc with holes.
But there is something about it--
Something about the way the water spins
Counter-clockwise around it,
Something about the seamlessness of this
That attracts my attention.
The water goes down the drain
And into the pipes.
The pipes lead to the water treatment facility
To get separated from the waste.
And then again, it will come out of the faucet
Here, and land on my skin.
This drain, this little metal disc,
Has become my entire world,
And the water I feel on my skin,
The water that will roll of my skin and empty into the drain,
Is the divine blessing that gives my world
Its meaning.

Car

It moves with all the temerity of a raging beast.
Its heart of steel pumps fire,
Each beat an explosion.
Its headlights, bold and alert,
Glare with disdain at any obstacle in the road ahead.
And the tires, with ambitious lust,
Enjoy their endless caress of the road.
This hulking beast longs to drive all night,
But alas, there is a higher power behind the wheel.
Against its will, the blinker is turned on at the next exit,
And the beast is quieted with the turning of a key.

Fantasy

Silently, all night, the young man fought
To reclaim his own mind.
The wine bottle, voluptuous on the nightstand,
Called out to him, begging to taste his kiss.
The bag of marijuana in his desk
Clung to his memory like the little red hairs
On the aromatic buds.
The cell phone, with all the names
Of friends who might be strangers
And strangers who might be friends
Sat next to him on his bed.
He dare not touch.
Instead, he took up a pen
And waited until the sun rose
To begin again.

Magic

Perhaps some fool could comprehend this woman,
But certainly not I.
The harder I try, the more common sense
Seems illusory, and magic and fantasy
Completely real.
Yes, she has cast a spell
And only she can free me.
Until then, I have no will of my own.
Like a diamond ground to dust,
It is scattered by the wind
That flows from her magic eyes.

Paradox

By some foolish notion, I have arrived
At this point of wisdom.
By some mistake, I have reached
Perfection.
By sinning too many time,
I have become
A holy man.
Strange how our contradictions
Make us more credibly human
And how the paradoxes of our lives
Teach us to be simple, and patient.

The Fortune-Teller

Impetuous woman, you scatter your deck of
Bewitched cards before me, and ask me to choose one.
"This card," she says, "is your life hereafter."
It is blank, till she raises it to her lips,
And leaves the mark of her lipstick.
I take the card and put it in my pocket.
Later, I take it out
And see that the lipstick has smudged.
Now it resembles a work of modern art.
I find her again, in her shack in the woods,
And demand an explanation.
Instead, she scatters more cards
And has me pick again.
She says, "This is the card of what has been."
I look, and the card turns to dust.
I leave, my mind teeming with bewilderment.
I hear her humming, and I want to go back,
But something--maybe her magic--
Keeps me from doing so, and I continue down the path.

Advice for Would-Be Beggars

Here are several pieces of advice
If you want to beg for a living:
Practice your best pathetic face
In the mirror as much as possible,
And become a paralytic if you can.
For this, I recommend jumping off a cliff,
But not one too high,
Otherwise you might die.
Learn to subdue your voice
So that it never hints at a command
Or self-confidence.
Practice not looking people in the eye.
No one likes a beggar who is
Proud of his shame.
You must also learn the subtle art
Of exhibiting your pain
While deliberately displaying your attempt to mask it.
You must walk down many dirty lanes
While never changing clothes.
Never wash, for that might give you dignity.
And to maintain an air of mysticism,
Let your hair grow long.
With a bit of grit mixed with self-defeat
No would-be beggar could go wrong.

Abandon

In search of abandon, I walk these streets
As if blown by the wind.
Nothing I seek, but something seeking me.
A gust of wind finds the trees,
Stirring the branches, rustling the leaves,
Something that won't abandon me--
The fields, the hills, the clouds, the sky
Unified by my very own eyes.

Realization

Hot steam shoots forth from the fissures of my brain:
The realization of my inevitable and complete annihilation.
Go! Live! Now!
But it's just hot air.
I stay in bed, and wait for sleep.

Forgiveness

A bitter heart will again be filled with love,
Which is distilled from truth
In the brain.
All that you see, from the luminous sky
To her face from a distance
Filled with patience and with pain
Sends truth through a sieve,
Filtering out the past,
Bringing love to the heart,
Till the cup runneth over,
And you can forgive once again.

Tending a Broken Heart

As I've grown, I've learned to tend a broken heart.
To let it sit despite its yearning cries
For a love that no one can give,
To turn my eyes outward toward the world,
Instead of peering inward at the source
Of my pain;
To coalesce my hope with my doubt,
So that I can find meaning
In all that reality has to offer;
To leave my heart open, despite its gushing wound.
To know that my blood replenishes itself
Through the strength of my bones.

Rain

We both knew the rain was coming.
One of us even said,
"It's going to rain,"
And the other nodded.
Then, when it began, like a million
Angry fists on the porch roof above our heads,
We smiled at each other
Like two lovers headed to bed
For the first time,
Too caught up in the moment with joy
To anticipate anything.
And after all, what was there to anticipate
But more rain, the washing away of the dust,
And perhaps, when the skies cleared,
A rainbow to draw us out into the middle of the street?

The Glass

All through the night she kept filling me up with hope,
Only to drink it down in a single gulp.
Drunk now, she flirts with other glasses,
While I sit here on the table,
My many facets reflecting her pretty face.
Unsuspectingly, an unfamiliar hand
Picks me up from my base,
And carries me across the room.
She fills me to the brim with Truth,
And places me on top of a pyramid of glasses,
The crowning ornament for all (including her) to gaze at.

Ships

This started out as a poem about ships,
But then I realized I know nothing
About ships.
At first I tried doing research,
But my brain was exhausted by
Just the sight of the unfamiliar terms.
So, I thought, here's another
Failure I can write about.
One in a long list.
Instead of sailing away
I am paying my debts
And praying each night
That my ship will come in.

Emotion

We found each other in the thralls of
Emotion, two vessels crashed in an ocean of tears.
Now the tears are gone, our bodies,
Spent. We stare into each others' eyes
Like two bemused strangers.
Where to go from here?
We must go reaching for more
Emotion, to be found perhaps
In the grasping tides
Or the stars.

Romance and Love

Romance without love is a fool's paradise.
Wandering aimlessly through the hills,
One can get lost and starve to death.
Love without romance is more like
The real paradise, partly in that
It doesn't actually exist.
Just look into her eyes.
If you love her, that's enough.

Promise

If I lived a thousand Springs,
I could not find a fuller love
Than this I sing.
Without you, it aches to breathe,
It always seems as if I've lost my way,
And then again I find you
Like a new dawn after a sleepless night.
These lonely hours last too long,
Doubt gags my love-born song.
Where are you? Where have you gone?
I gaze far down the road,
Wait at every door.
Such waiting is not good for the soul!
The pain is great, but I somehow know
You will reappear, smiling,
That age-old promise still holding strong
In your eyes.

Dust

If you go through my trash today,
Most of what you'll find is valueless junk:
Empty bags of potato chips,
Used and discarded q-tips,
And wadded up pieces of gum.
But if you look deeper you will find
Three crumpled up pieces of paper
Torn from a journal--
Three poems, all entitled "For Lucy."
Once these poems had for me the value
Of a treasure trove,
For they stored all of the possibility
Of our love.
But now I see, the love was nothing
But a dream,
The treasure trove just an empty room.
Oh, that love could be naught more
Than a shout from the bottom of a well!
Silenced, and never to be returned.
These papers will turn to dust,
And soon, I will, too.
Be free then, dream of love!
As dust, may you find not only love,
But also, Truth!

A More Distant Star

Maple tree, is it plain to see that
You love the sun
And that the sun loves you,
And those long nights are full of jealous dreams
For the trees on the other side of the world.
And yet, I must ask, do you ever doubt
This love that in winter keeps you bare
And in spring makes you exude life
Through your pores?
Is there not, perhaps, a more distant star
That you sense reaches for you in the night?
And do you ever weep for such a star?
In the night time, in your sleep,
You do.
When the wind blows through your branches
I hear you moan.
And for that I see the star shine
Ever brighter.

For Lucy #2

Madness and love, like dual edges
Of a sword, have thrust themselves
Into my heart.
You hold the blade, and as I bleed
I behold your face, smiling, welcoming me
To a splendid death.
That I might speak these words
With my final breath!
Before this blade entered my chest
I could not reconcile the world with these eyes.
Only in yours, my love, does the world
Become my home,
And the life that I lose
Become a life worth living.

For Lucy

You before me, always, that is
How it will be.
You be my eyes that see
When darkness falls.
You be my feet that carry me
Wherever you lead.
When the sun is within my reach,
You will feel its warmth before me.
You will know the shadows cast
By wild beasts,
And shed your light upon them
Wherever I go.
You will reach the stars before me,
You alone will have the moon.
You will possess me
Before I can possess myself.
And you will shake me back
To life when I am lost
In the realm of fantasy.
Always before me,
Always your hand in mine,
Guiding me, trusting that I
Will have the courage to follow.

Denial

I denied the temptress,
Skipped out on dessert,
Resisted the urge to nap after work;
I said "no" to a friend who
Wanted to get a beer,
Turned away from my lover
When she began to whisper in my ear,
Just so I could be here now,
To tell you that you too
Should wait, keep yourself apart
From what you don't need,
If only long enough to simply breathe,
Or write a poem.

The Artist

The artist working on the street
Is too meticulous for his own good.
He is facing a large square building
With an enclosed dining area out front.
He is not painting the dining area.
He is not exploring the expressions on the faces there.
Instead, he is painting a landscape,
Adding to it greedily
As if each new detail were a gem
In a treasure chest.
The work, I think, was finished
As soon as it began.
Meanwhile, I sit watching him,
Unnoticed by the passing throngs.

The Guru

To achieve peace, I went to visit the yoga master
Guru Shihiri at his studio uptown.
Many of us came to take instruction in the ancient
Art of Hatha Yoga.
He expounded on the ten basic principles
And we the listeners were in awe at the power
Of his words.
We sat and chanted "om" continuously for half an hour.
"Be free in the ever-present spirit of each moment," he said,
And we all bowed to the great man.
Afterwards, on my way home,
I stopped at a pizzeria and got a calzone.
On my way out, who do you think was coming in?
The guru.
"Enjoy your pizza," he said, smiling.
"And don't forget to digest!"

Plugged

It's Springtime and all my brain will tell me is
"Sex! Sex! Sex!"
It resounds in the exact spot where the poetry should be.
So I take walks and stare at the beautiful
Women, and over and over it's
"Sex! Sex! Sex!" in my brain.
The stares come to nothing,
And the chant continues:
"Sex! Sex! Sex!" in my brain.
I go home, turn off the light
And try to imagine those beautiful dames,
But alas, when I do,
It's "Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!" in my brain.

Impossible Love

Poor sweet fellow lonely soul
That yearns for my love as I do yours
Can't you see that a love so sweet
Requires a boundless toll?
Of these funds I have been drained
For giving love that was in vain.
Now poor rose that longs to bloom,
I beg you, lock yourself inside a tomb
And let the voices of the dead
Comfort you.
For though our love can never be,
Death, too, is a wondrous mystery,
And perhaps within its hollow core,
Love itself exists
Forevermore.

Hope is the Last to Go

I hope I don't die an unknown poet
On a cold day in a room with no heat
Surrounded by journals filled with pages
And pages of poetry.
I hope the refrigerator won't be bare
Except for some moldy cheese--
Perhaps a Camembert,
And that two cats won't sit meowing by an empty feed
And the air won't smell like their piss.
I hope the mailbox isn't stuffed with bills
And letters from the IRS.
I hope I don't lay, all skin and bones,
In a stiff and musty bed,
A bottle of cheap wine, or perhaps
A vile of morphine beside my head.
I hope I won't be reciting my poetry aloud,
Causing the neighbor to pound on the wall
And shout, "Why can't you just be dead?"
And I hope as I go I won't think to myself,
In a hundred years I may be famous,
And laugh at myself as I catch the fact
That hope is the last to go.

Suicide

I expect to see my life flash before my eyes
Standing on the edge of this ten story building,
But instead all I see is the woman
Preparing dinner through the window
In the building across from me.
She's young and beautiful, representing
All the reasons I am up here and
About to die.
Perhaps, I think, I should wait till she looks up
And sees me before I jump,
Just for some last minute kicks.
But no, she won't look up,
And if she does she won't see me,
Only the clouds and the crisp blue sky.
Now her husband comes over and gives her a kiss.
Perfect domestic bliss.
Perhaps, later, when she hears the news,
This woman will cry.
But probably not.
I am a stranger, after all.
Goodbye, stranger!
Perhaps in another life.
As for now, I have a date with destiny.
(I fall) How wondrous is this life!

The Ambitious Bird

Once upon a time there was a little bird that desired to see the inside of the sun, so off it flew as soon as it was able, making its way to the sun. It got hotter and hotter, and the bird started to melt, so it came back down. "Boy," he said, "I really didn't know the sun was so hot. Maybe I should try the moon instead." So off it flew toward the moon, only the higher it got, the colder it got, and it began to freeze. "My," thought the bird. "I didn't realize the moon was so cold. Maybe I should try the stars." So off it flew toward the stars, but the higher it got, the further and further it seemed the stars got. So it stopped and said to itself, "I didn't realize the stars were so far away. What shall I fly to if not the sun, moon, or stars?" Then it heard the sound of chirping--a beautiful song. It looked and saw a beautiful gray female bird, and flew in its direction. It followed the bird for days it seemed, and the bird realized, when he finally caught it, that it was love all along it needed to fly to.

Romance

When I was ten and she was five,
She wore pigtails and hid her smile
Behind her mother's back when I came to ask
Her to join our neighborhood game
Of kick-the-can.
And when I caught her eye, she ran
Back into her house.
"Sorry," her mother said.

When I was fifteen and she was ten,
She still wore pigtails, though
I pretended not to notice,
Even as she skipped along beside me
As I walked down the street with my friends.
"Where are you going?" she said
In what seemed to me the voice of a mouse.
"Nowhere," I replied abruptly, in a voice so deep
It surprised even me.
"Nowhere sounds fun. Can I come along?"
My friends glanced at me sidelong.
I rolled my eyes and said,
"Get gone."
She skipped away, unfazed, and I watched her,
Ashamedly amused.

When I was twenty and she was fifteen,
I was suddenly amazed by her appearance.
She was going to a high school dance
When I walked by her house.
I desperately wanted to say hello,
But she just seemed so happy, and so young.
I myself felt old, and glum,
That is until she smiled.
The fact that it turned me around so quick
Was frightening--it seemed so much like desire.

When I was twenty five and she was twenty,
We met at a party.
She had a boyfriend
But I myself was single.
The years had chased us down, it seemed,
When I asked her for a date.
A few months later we were together,
Fifteen years later
But certainly not too late.

Weed

Green thoughts in a room full of green haze.
Are my hands really connected to my arms
Or are they only pretending to be?
When I laugh, does that take me one step further away
From some deep mysterious Truth?
Someone's trying to explain something to me,
Something that might have something to do with me,
But how can I be sure?
Maybe I should keep listening,
Only there's a fly on the wall
And that's much more interesting.
Is that blood dripping from the ceiling?
I think somebody lives upstairs.
Or should I say lived?
I think I hear clapping,
But no, it's a candy wrapper.
Maybe I should think about God.
"Isn't that right, Dan," says Ben, clapping me on the shoulder.
"Huh-huh. Yeah, man. You said it all."

White Guilt

Seeing that he was black, and dressed in ragged clothes,
I assumed the worst for the man.
But I wasn't going anywhere,
I had no agenda in mind.
I watched him pass the first time, his head dropped,
Then passed him again several minutes later
Around the same spot near the skating rink.
This time, I stopped him.
"Excuse me," I said, feeling humble
But aiming for magnanimity.
"Can I buy you a meal?"
"Sure," he said.
We started walking towards a coney shop
And talked about his life.
He'd just lost his job at a manufacturing plant
And was, as I had thought, out on the streets.
We ate.
I recited him a poem, which he didn't understand or appreciate,
And we left.
He asked for money for a cab.
He needed to get across town to see his family.
I must admit, I hesitated,
But I finally gave him the money needed.
Then something happened to both of our hearts.
He was no longer a homeless black man
And I was no longer an over-privileged white boy.
We were two souls, aimed at love,
And when we embraced,
We knew we had hit the mark.

Tolstoy Tells the Story of My Life

I am walking down the street and suddenly I realize,
Leo Tolstoy is in my head
And he's writing everything that is happening
To me at this very moment.
I hear his deep and sonorous voice
As he describes the way I look at the trees
With their brightly lit leaves,
And wonder as they sway in the warm spring breeze
"Like," as he puts it, "old fat women moving ponderously at an aerobic's class."
He even writes that I feel a sense of false pride
In assuming that it was I, and not he,
That came up with that simile.

"Ah, how fleeting are the chances for glory, thought Daniel."
That's what he writes as I pass the tire swing, where I
Used to push my brother
And recall the time I failed to defend him
From our neighbor Jimmy,
Who stole his popsicle.
He writes everything, only as Tolstoy could,
With such style! And such grace!
The analogy he uses to describe the way I put my hands
In my pockets as being
Like a boat finally docking at the shore
After months of traveling,
Astounds even me.
And indeed I do feel more at home with my hands in my pockets,
And I gaze up at the sky,
And wonder as I listen to this great narration
Of my life, which, as Tolstoy decides,
Must all be my imagination.

My Uncle Bob

"This country needs poets like
I need another heart attack!"
Said my Uncle Bob as we sat
On his front porch watching
The fireflies.
"Take it from me," he said, sipping his beer,
"You want to be an engineer!"
"Why's that?" I asked, though not the least surprised.
"Engineers make bombs and fighter planes,
And there's always need for those."
"But Uncle Bob," I said, "I want to fuel the love,
Not the hate in the world."
"The love?" he cried with a cackled laugh.
"Why, any fool can do that!
All he needs is a cheap bottle of wine
And a decent looking whore!
The love, Daniel. Really."
I sat there and watched as he crushed fireflies in his fist,
And thought, "Yes, this man too could have been a poet."

All Right

Above me, a sliver of the moon points the way
For the gray and blue clouds
That move like slugs over the hazy blue sky.
A bird feverishly sings its turgid song,
Its final flourishes before the sun goes down.
The frogs are warming up for the night's tribal chanting,
And here I sit beneath the bare skeleton
Of a sugar maple
Waiting for someone to come along and tell me
That I do indeed have it all right.

Time and Space

Time and Space went for a drive
With no destination in mind,
Which was good
Because the road led nowhere.
Soon they got to talking,
And an argument arose
Over who was more important.
Time kept going on and on,
Not letting a word in edgewise.
Then, they passed a beautiful lake,
And Space said, "Hush!"
Time was silent, and still, as he looked.
"You see?" said Space.
"That's beauty. Only Space can do that."
Time just shrugged his shoulders
And went on talking
In his deep melodious voice,
Till Space fell asleep,
And Time was talking to himself.

A Wondrous Dream

I saw her, a sight more musical than sound
And heard her speak in a voice that shone
Brighter than any star.
Her touch as sweet as the sweetest nectar,
And her smell as soft as a passing cloud.
And when I tasted her mouth,
Light, touch, taste, smell and sound
Were in love together bound
In waking life a wondrous dream we found.

Seven Minutes in Heaven

We stood in the dark, each waiting
For the other to act,
Unaware that we each held the same
Desires. Unaware that our hearts
Were pounding equally as fast.
We could both feel the heat
Of each others' breath,
And yet, we did not guess
That for one of us to put our lips
Onto the others' would not have sealed our fate,
Would not have changed the essential pith
Of who we were.
We waited in the dark for seven minutes.
An eternity of longing for two so close.
When we left the closet and faced the others,
We just smiled wryly,
And shook our heads.

My Friend the Monster

Allow me to introduce you to my friend The Monster.
It's best you don't shake his hand.
Despite his size, he really has
A "poor little heart," as they say.
Best not to look him in the eye at first,
Not until he's been allowed to toss you.
Please, don't mind the stench.
Monsters generally don't take showers
Or wear deodorant.
However, he does love a good mud bath.
Don't give him any meat.
He's on a vegetarian diet.
He's beginning to catch on to the whole "slim and fit" thing.
Yes, I know, he drools
And barely can put a sentence together,
But actually he's quite intelligent.
I'm teaching him some of the finer arts.
Right now, we're knitting and baking.
He has trouble threading the needle, though.
Go on, give him a hug!
And if he doesn't let go,
Tickle his belly.
He likes that.

The River is Wild

The river proceeds with no caution,
But I must in the snow.
Ice patches are rampant in this early Spring.
In this early Spring the river runs wild
As does my heart, still, in the vestiges of my youth.
I could go on, but am wearing the wrong shoes.
If I slipped and cracked my head on a rock,
It'd be the end of me out here.
The river runs wild.
Surely, wilder than me.

The Doves

The doves in the tree are cooing.
"What are you cooing at?" I say.
They keep cooing.
What's their secret?
"What's your secret?" I cry.
They fly off
And one poops on my head.

People Watching

The key is to stare too long
Only at the people you don't care about--
The ugly ones, society's rejects,
You instantly know who they are.
What does it matter if your prying eyes
Remind them of their shortcomings?
They have nothing to offer you,
Only the gross satisfaction of reading
Their abysmal life stories
On their grotesque faces.
When it comes to the beautiful,
Don't stare too long.
You might fall in love
And a moment later have your heart broken
As they walk away.

For an Old Friend

I've been walking around, averting my gaze,
Afraid of seeing others and being seen,
Defending my pride with the broken sword
Of ignorance and hate.
But now I am awake,
Refreshed after that night of deep
And dour dreams.
All it took to wake me was the sound of your voice
Calling my name.

Speak My Love

She is the needle, and foolishness
The drug.
She has punctured me a thousand times
And do I tell her?
No. I do not speak my love.
She is the sore upon my tongue
That oozes bitter blood.
I do not eat. I starve myself.
And I do not speak my love.
She is the eye that constantly fixes its gaze
Upon every secret in my hidden heart.
She knows, yes, she knows!
But I do not speak my love.
And when I sleep, she is my dream
Long unknowingly desired.
But even then, in the realm of oblivion,
I do not speak my love.

Olivia (Study in Green)

She wore green and she spoke
In a very green way
About her love for horses
And her desire to ride one barebacked
At a full gallop across a grassy dale.
She greeted each gust of wind with a smile
And picked the green leaves from the trees
Then cast them off into the breeze.
Her eyes were like moss,
Soft and green.
She was only seventeen,
But already she knew what
She wanted most out of life:
More and more laughter
And wondrous green.

Senility

One evening, while staying with my parents,
I walked into the kitchen to find my father
Stacking newly washed dishes in the microwave.
Dad?
"Yes, son?"
What are you doing?
He turned and looked at me--
His mouth slightly agape,
His eyes bewildered and sad--
Then at the plates in the microwave,
And finally at the one in his hand.
"Oh."
I wanted to embrace him,
But instead I watched without a word
As he picked up the plates in the microwave,
And ever so carefully, so as not to drop them,
Carried them, and placed them in the cabinet.
Never was I so proud to be my father's son.

High School Bash

I was drunkenly explaining the meaning
Of a Pink Floyd song to my friend Aaron
When the news reached my ear.
The police are here!
I heard one girl laugh as if it weren't true.
Another cried out in anguish
As if she already were a felon,
And someone, I think, vomited their beer.
I saw Forrest out of the corner of my eye
Chugging a beer, his chin to the sky.
As for myself, I was gone.
I hopped the fence and sprinted all the way home.
Funny, I think now, it all might have been a hoax.
But that's OK. Later that night,
I drove around with my girl,
And we made love...almost.

The Peacock and the Chickens

 

Once upon a time there was a very proud and very curious peacock that lived with its family in the forest. When it got old enough, it decided that he was too beautiful and the world was too large for him to stay in one place, so he took to the skies and flew. He flew over mountains, he flew over hills and prairies, he flew over lakes and valleys, but finally he came to a small field, where, beside a pond, there resided a small chicken farm. The peacock was struck by something profound as he overheard the chickens clucking; something similar to what a traveler feels when he’s passing through a familiar town. The peacock landed and made its way over the fence into the chicken yard. He then crouched down and entered the portal into the coop.

               When the chickens saw him, they became instantly silent. They circled around him and stared in complete awe. Never before had they seen anything like him. Even the rooster was put to shame! Then, they began to bow down to the peacock, saying, “It is the Almighty One! He has come to save us! Oh, we praise you, Almighty One. Stay with us and be our leader!” Then some of the chickens began to pluck some of their feathers from their plumage and made a crown with them, which they proceeded to place on top of the peacock’s head. They fed him with many of the eggs that they had laid, and carried him to his perch on top of the feeding shelf.

               The peacock, stunned but obviously flattered by this treatment, agreed to stay. After all, who could ask for a better reception?

               The next day, however, Farmer John came into the chicken coop to collect the eggs, and beholding the peacock, said to himself, “Well Lord Almighty! Look at that!  Wouldn’t he make a fine Thanksgiving dinner!”

               So, the farmer took the peacock, which was still wearing his crown of chicken feathers, and dragged him out to the chopping block. The chickens were stunned when they heard the blow. And so, our poor peacock became Farmer John’s Thanksgiving meal. Poor peacock!

              The moral of the story: If you’re treated like a god, get out of the situation as fast as you can.

The Bear and the Snails

        Once upon a time there was a very old and very lonely bear. All of the bear’s

friends and brothers and sisters had long passed, and its children, as children are

wont to do, had moved away to far away places. And this wasn’t the only thing about

the bear’s life that was bad. A long time ago, when the bear was in his prime, a

hunter had shot him in the leg. Though the bear was able to get away, he was left

with a loathsome limp. The only real positive aspect of the bear’s life was his home,

which was a small cave on the top of a hillside overlooking a beautiful river valley.

One day, after the bear had spent the day at the river feeding on salmon, he

came home to find a family of snails in his cave. At first, the bear was confused. He

approached the snails and sniffed them. They seemed to be asleep. Then he licked

them up off the ground and began to chew them in his mouth, but they were slimy

and disgusting so he spit them out! “What are you?” said the bear. “Where did you

come from and why do you taste so disgusting?”

“We are the snail family,” said the father snail. “We come from the forest

where we only ate plants. As for your last question, I can only reply by saying that

we taste disgusting so that predators like you won’t eat us.”

The beer peered at the snail for a long time. “So you aren’t afraid of me?” he

asked.

“On the contrary,” said the father snail. “We would like to live here with you

in your cave. It is a lovely home.”

The bear thought to himself, and decided that he was very lonely and the

company might do him some good. So he allowed the snails to stay.

However, the snails began to multiply, and the cave was rather small. It

became difficult for the bear because, when he slept, he had to be careful not to roll

over so as not to crush the snails. Also, he had to work extra hard to avoid stepping

on the snails when he wanted to leave the cave, which was extra hard because of the

bear’s impediment.

One day, the bear was leaving his cave to get a drink of water when by

accident he stepped on several snails, squashing them. The snails became

uproarious. They decided that the bear must be executed for his crime, so they

jumped on top of him and began to eat him.

“Please!” cried the bear. “Don’t eat me! I didn’t mean to step on your

compatriots. It was because I have this limp from when a hunter shot me many

years ago!”

The head snail decided that he would let the bear live. However, he must

leave the cave and never come back. The bear lumbered dejectedly toward the exit

of the cave. Just as he was leaving, a baby snail perked up and said: “Wait! Don’t

leave quite yet.” The baby snail approached the bear and began climbing up its leg. It

burrowed its way under the bear’s skin. The bear was in agony but he trusted the

baby snail. Finally, the baby snail came out of the bear’s leg carrying the hunter’s

bullet on its back. The bear began to flex its leg. For the first time in years, there was

no pain.

“Oh, thank you, little snail! How can I ever repay you?”

The baby snail said: “You can repay me by staying.” Then, the baby snail

turned to its father and said, “Isn’t that right, father?”

The father smiled and said to the bear, “Well, it seems you have a guardian

angel. You can stay, bear. All is forgiven.”

And so the bear stayed, and he and the snails shared the cave for many years.

Fools

Fools. We mock them, we lambast them, and worst,
We correct them.
Not because they're wrong, but because we're right,
And we know we're right.
A fool is nothing more than a man who displays his weakness.
Oftentimes, we love him for it,
But only if, in his strength, he's a tyrant.
If you don't understand the fool,
What does that make you?
A genius?

New Year's

Poor Harold, he's drunk again,
And walking around the party in his bathrobe
And nothing else.
The first victims are the two innocent looking debutantes in the corner.
He flashes them, and they leave the party,
No longer feeling like innocent debutantes.
Now he's sticking his genitals
Into the fishbowl,
And giving it a stir.
The fish don't seem to mind,
And Harold is utterly pleased.
He's taking another shot of Hennessey,
And pondering his next move
When, almost to his delight,
He vomits on Charles' wife,
And proceeds to grab her breast as he says,
"I'm sorry."
Someone ought to end this debauchery,
And send Harold to bed.
But no one dares.
After all, it's his party we're enjoying,
And his champagne.