Finding My Muse

There is no telling where I will find
My muse. Sometimes, if I'm lucky,
She'll appear out of the bottom of an empty glass.
And, if I'm really lucky, she'll appear
Out of an empty bottle.
Mostly she comes when I least expect her--
With a gust of wind, a flock of sparrows
Flying overhead. I've looked for her in
Temples, churches, cemeteries ,
Though it is rare that I find her
In places made sacred by the placement
Of stone. She likes to reside in the forests
Where, like a nymph, she dances from
Tree to tree. Oftentimes I'll be walking through
A wood, and she will pop out from behind
An oak, naked, her amber hair flowing
Like sunlight from her beaming head,
And embrace me, whispering a poem
Into my ear.

The Geese

The torrents of life have worn me thin.
Tonight, I can barely keep my feet
As I make my way in search of a place
Which tonight I might call my home.
To avoid being seen by those who
Move about in the city,
I take the route through the park
Alongside the old pond where the geese
Make their home.
And sure enough, there they are,
And I stop to watch them.
The water ripples with circles of orange
And violet as the geese bathe
Under the light of the setting sun.
My pleasures are so fleeting, like
The sunset. The geese take flight,
And again, I am alone.

Moses

Standing before her, I feel like Moses
Trying to part the Red Sea
In her eyes.
Behind me are all my unborn children
Heavily wrought with the slavery
Of nonexistence.
Alas, she holds onto her beauty
The way a lost man
Holds onto his nerve.
Not God, but my staff
Has failed.
She turns away so easily,
Leaving me and my people
To the mercy of Pharaoh
And his vengeful, recriminating horde.

Money Makes the Man

Today I dressed myself in a suit and tie,
Black leather shoes, and a long black
Pea coat. With no particular place to go,
I walked out my front door, felt the cold,
And decided to stop in a cafe
For some hot chocolate. Waiting in line,
The blonde with the red fur hat
In front of me glanced over her shoulder
And seemed pleased by what she saw.
The eyes of the red headed barista
Lit up when she saw me
And the young man behind the register
Seemed taken aback by my appearance.
I ordered my hot chocolate, and handed him
My card. He swiped it once, then again,
And then a third time.
"Sorry," he said, "it seems your account is overdrawn."
It's not the clothes, I thought, but money
Makes the man.

Today's Catch

Each night, I sit at my desk, open
My notebook, and, like a fisherman casting
His net, throw my mind into the ocean
Of my own vocabulary. Mostly, I drag in
Worthless junk--sardines, small crabs, tin cans
And such, words worth no more
Than their weight in dust.
Occasionally, though, I'll bring in a swordfish
Or a tuna--something that will feed
The family for weeks.
Lately, though, I've have some troubles with
My net. Holes keep appearing. It's as if,
In my attempt to nab the best, the biggest
Words, I'm giving myself little chance
To catch anything at all.
I've tried making the necessary repairs
But who can say what starts to gnaw
On the mesh strands once the net
Is cast? Some doubt that's growing, perhaps.
Allow me to show you my latest catch.
In fact, take it. It's yours.
I'll even flay it for you, so you can serve it
Tonight for your family, or, if you like
A gathering of friends.

Bird House

The abandoned house on the corner
Has literally gone to the birds.
They must have found a crack in the
Old, dilapidated siding, hopped in
And proceeded to breed. Now, when one
Passes by, one is greeted by the cacophony
Of several hundred singing birds.
The unfortunate neighbors have appealed to the city,
But the birds have their own faction
Of supporters, who think the house
Ought to be turned into a kind of museum.
I myself don't mind the birds,
Just as long as they aren't up to
Any mischief--building weapons of mass destruction--
You know, Hitchcockian stuff.

Calm Yourself

Here, let's sit down.
Just because you're angry, doesn't mean
You wear a crown.
Take off your jester's cap
And relax.
Why try and swallow everything whole
Like a snake
When you can be like a human
And masticate?
First things first.
Take this cup of tea.
It will dissolve your hatred
And give you a chance
To literally blow off steam.

Showering

When it comes to pleasure while showering,
I like to push the limits.
The worse the day, the better the shower--
That's the rule. The strange thing
About showers, though--as you're standing there,
Literally steaming and drenched at the same time,
Feeling every inch of your skin
Taking a load off, the question arises,
How good is this going to get?
Of course, the answer never comes,
Because before your pleasure has peaked,
The hot water runs out.

Dancing With My Shadow

Floating aloft in a room filled with music,
I tease my shadow into a weightless dance.
Rhythmically kicking off the dust
With a magician's cryptic touch, he
Licks the lavender from his palms,
Removes his hat, and grows wild in the pants.
Shimmying out of reason's grasp, spinning
Out of doubt, our bodies announce themselves
Like two trumpets blowing till the sun goes down.
Then, in a dark room with no shadow, my feet
Hit the floor. I collapse, pass out,
Awakening the next morning
To the sound of my shadow at the door.

As I Try to Sleep

The past is a siren's song that
Lulls me toward the rocky coast
Of corrupted promises.
The future is a fever dream that
Hurls me from my bed, down the stairs
And out the door to worship
In darkness.
The present is the woman who lies beside me,
Whose touch is the balm that calms
My fever, who joins the chorus of the sirens,
In harmony with my past.

These Words, How they Dance!

A word is dancing on the edge of my tongue.
I can't control her shimmies and cha-cha-chas.
I keep my teeth clenched, barring her
From the world. She just keeps dancing.
Sometimes, she escapes, and moonwalks her way
Into people's ears, where she grinds up
Against their eardrums, teasing their brains
With her gyrating hips.
But no matter how excited these brains become,
Her body always moves to the rhythm of my own,
And she always comes home to her place
Behind my teeth, to dance out the rest of her
Sentence, never stopping to sleep, always
Quickening her pace.

The Sermon

When the psychiatrist entered the room
The sermon was already underway.
The music of the patient's voice
Had the nurses hypnotized.
Mouths agape, they listened,
Convinced, yes, that this was insanity,
But allowing that phantom, doubt,
To create shadows on their certitude.

"Insanity," spoke the patient,
"Is the last pure portal into God's
Hidden chambers. Madness is only madness
Because it can not be divinity.
God is inviting me in,
Not seeing that which I do:
That is, that there isn't room enough
For the both of us.
It is that hand of God pulling me in
To a space I cannot fit
That makes me mad.
And that which I see
Is closer to God than that which
Sane men see. So,
I have choices."

The nurses and doctor were silent,
Waiting for his final words.
The patient glanced from face to face
And, like a new life being born
From his breast, laughed a childish laugh.