In a Pawn Shop Window

Made in China,
the upset vase,
in disgrace, hides
its fragile face
and its sorrow
from cut glass eggs
that will not hatch
in nests of wire
and pewter fish
with ruby eyes
that cannot swim
in tattered lace.

We're Caught in an Ancient Pattern

Yesterday, a hundred billion years ago,
patterns started there, Amiga.
Contemplation seems self-indulgent.
We're caught up in a rush. Parasites,
a series of false selves, color our behavior.
We're caught in patterns. In open spaces,
we find ourselves calling resistance
achievement. Fear is the impulse to deny
patterns. Caught in confusion, in this
circular spinning, the ancients are family.

A Little Giddy (for T.S. Eliot)

Critics won't die from explication,
though the burden of their explicating
is to arrest what others stargazed
and recognize the pizzeria is the Promised Land.
Past the unkennelled gastropod
whose earthly remains encourage
turf wars between beggars,
through the soup kitchen of the lollygagging ritualist,
around the vocational school of the hidden water cooler--
unacknowledged and unwanted
by all but headstrong stigmatists
who thrive between waterworks and scuttlebutt,
here, now and forever--
in this condensation of complete single-mindedness
(costing not less than everlastingness)
illusion and allusion suffice;
all mankind's thimblerigs suffice
when bits of bone and flakes of stone decoupage
can be crafted into regal knockoffs
to be studied by freaks and fools;
fine art and the Rorschach test are one.

At the Supermarket

Because Mother raised a gentleman,
I try not to laugh at you sitting there
in a puddle of chocolate milk--
dairy-section centerpiece.

Only minutes ago, I saw your same
wide-eyed, gaped-mouth expression
(pain or bewilderment?)
gracing a trout in the seafood case.

Like any gallant knight,
I swallow my smile
(I will not laugh)
and hold out my hand to rescue you.

But you, demure damsel, will have none of that.
My only warning is a blink, as you grasp my hand,
then give a fierce jerk, and reel me in
to land with a wet thump at your side.

I bite my tongue,
taste blood.
But I will not cry--
because Father raised a real man.

Forget the Rules

Forget the rules. We're out of soap.
The electric razor is on the fritz.
Disaster blooms upon your chin
and blisters my tender throat.
Still, my blood runs hot.
Hide yourself between my breasts.
Punch the puritan quilt to the floor.
Our bodies form a demented cross
against the cold Capricorn sun,
and passion hijacks the morn.

Rants (For a Likely Story)

Reaching back to heaven, I caught a liar's moon.
(Who said there are never enough words?)
I dug deep, hung tight, and I played
until midlife, midwife, middle
of nowhere,
something died.
I changed my mind,
changed myself,
changed myself again.
I didn't stay.
I didn't listen.
I didn't know
dreams end in radio station madness
where libidinal bodies beat the drums.
With every vibration, she's calling me.
Failures and footsteps at my back,
I cannot stop.
I cannot stop,
nor can she.
So, we run.
We run.
Whorehouse-smart, I'm not
buddy-buddy,
just very,
very tired.

These Days

These days, I hate most everything
and curse the muse who hides
all but the glare of baleful eyes
behind dead poets and scholars.

I could break the rules, dance with fools,
castrate my I's, and hurl commas
like boomerangs into the air,
but who needs a new prison to hate?

I Would be a Tree

There's nothing I would rather be
than tall and strong and full of grace.
If I could, I would be a tree.

You say my limbs are too stubby;
my trunk, you could never embrace.
There's nothing I would rather be

than immune to such scrutiny,
transplanted to another place;
if I could, I would be a tree,

shed all my leaves with impunity,
and smear sap all over my face.
There's nothing I would rather be

than master of my sanity;
but, let me tell you (just in case)
if I could, I would be a tree.

What I know with certainty
can be said without disgrace:
There's nothing I would rather be;
if I could, I would be a tree.

Whiskey Kisses

He thought of his wife,
then looked at his watch.
In his glass, amber whiskey,
smooth as water,
whispered
to be whirled.

Up to him, the woman whirled--
nothing like his wife.
With moist red lips, she whispered,
"Would you like to watch
the moon rise on the water?
Bring the whiskey."

He thought perhaps her name was Whiskey.
Cascades of red-gold hair glittered as she whirled
away towards the water.
No, this wild one was not his wife.
He glanced at his watch.
"Still time," he whispered.

"See the moon," she whispered
near his ear. Her breath was whiskey-
sweet. He wanted to watch
her red lips, but she whirled
away again. No, not like his wife
who was afraid of water.

The swollen moon floated on the water.
Gentle waves whispered,
"She's not your wife."
He drained the last amber drops of whiskey
from the bottle, then cast it away. It whirled
end over end. The woman turned to watch.

The bottle splashed. He looked at his watch,
then at the water.
His mind whirled.
The woman whispered,
"We need more whiskey."
He wished she was his wife.

"Forget your wife," she whispered.
"We can share whiskey kisses by the water."
His senses whirled, and he did not look at his watch.

Howdy

I am
a poem

I may not look
like much
to you

just
words
without breeding or formal training
carelessly
dropped
in the center
of
nowhere

but
I am a poem
and
I like it here

I am not asking
for
admiration
or approval

merely a nod in passing

For Richard and Brian

Please Don't Feed the Bear

In Retro-Sixties style,
tourists spread their picnic
beneath the Day-Glo sign:
Please do not feed the bear.
Chanting "Make love not war,"
they toss Twinkies, popcorn
and morsels of Moon Pie
into the cave's dark mouth
'til, with a roar and a flash
of fangs and 4-inch claws,
the grizzled beast appears.
The stunned visitors gasp,
raise clenched fists and cry, "Foul!"
while bear shreds their baskets,
kicks dirt on their blankets
and marks the spot with piss.

Ya gotta start somewhere

Ice Cream and Oakwood

One hectic, summer afternoon,
I make my way to Frosty Boy,
buy myself a chocolate malt,
then drive fast to the edge of town
where Oakwood Cemetery sprawls
on the hill near Raisin River.

I park the car on gravel lane
to roam closer to the natives:
chiseled stones--both smooth and battered,
bronze stars and flags staked in the ground
near urns of flowers, and eerie
mausoleums with padlocked gates.

Muffled cheering from Island Park
across the creek--a baseball game,
I suppose--and the "crack crack crack"
that echoes from the shooting range
located three miles down the road
vie with hidden squirrels' chatter.

At last my straw draws only air,
so I pause near granite angel
and ask her if perhaps she knows
why other occupants and I
chose our resting places to lie
upon this hill of sprawling oaks.

I watch the hardness of her jaw,
coarse curves polished by elements
and time, and it does not appear
to move at all. But then, a light
in her left eye, I think I see--
a tiny flicker in response.

Getting Our Bearings

Stay tuned. Nobody likes clunkers.