Poetry

Ignorance remains
the steadiest path to mistakes/errors
“hey I didn’t know” is slightly
superior to “I was drunk”, or that
chestnut, “it was a long time ago,
things were different then”.
Don’t fall for it.
To hit your kids is as wrong
in 1970 as it is today, as
wrong as princes in the tower
or cigarette burns on a toddler’s back.

Night, the anger rises.
Rage, rage, rage against the 
Perceived slights of today,
not paid enough, not promoted,
night shift chain smoking 
by the hour, this job deserves a
walk out, but to where?

Later, a hit down, swing low
to meet your self esteem, 
those little shits need to learn
to shut up.
Survey the wounded.
Bathroom door, photo frames,
dog cowering by the door.
Patch the sheetrock, make 
apologies with pizza, toys.

Research reveals that the abused
so often become abusers in turn.
Poor fools, quick to anger and
quick to self delusion. Poor excuses.
Social Services knows your family name.
The same smile, bad teeth,
good with their hands. 
That one was a star athlete.
Dark rivers run strongest at night
as owls regard the trailer with
wide, wide eyes while the moon,
Uncle Moon, looks away.

You shouldn’t worry baby boy
            lips still hours away
from shame or consequence
            You say you’re a grown-up
now and you can want whatever you want
            and if you want
this swallow him within your
            slipping minutes
when the auto park
            just beyond these
fortress walls sits quietly in repose its
            steel skeletons
grinding night between their teeth
            a cemetery
filled with the dawn-bleached bones
            that sooner or later
you’ll weave through like contrails across
            blue bruise of sky
The morning will shiver in protest
            when you say goodbye
without a sound instead with looks
            of pang or envy
but for now the air is thick in your lungs
            the room vivisected
by a disco ball’s providential
            eye and all around you are
the faces of men you’ve come to memorize
            the way an apostle
would commit his sacred texts to heart
            If you want this
and who here is above wanting
            you must rest
your hand on the small of his back
            that same skin
which soon will unravel with steam
            warm clouds
lifting from his body in that instant
            when frost
first strikes heat those seconds
            where your names
will not matter below the
            impish creep of horizon’s blade
your bodies possessed even then
            by the bass
and the throbbing puncture
            of party-favored mania
scored by the key in any given
            bathroom stall
You shouldn’t worry because
            no one is dying
tonight at least no more than
            should be expected as the dark
peels away like a soiled bandage
            You are too young
still to worry about what you can’t control
            about what comes after or
next you see that is the langue of experience
            and baby boy
who are you to pick up such a tongue so soon
            Now you know what
you want even if you cannot name it
            so you pull him
into your trembling mouth’s
            ready chamber you
shake your limbs in ritual when
            at last the climax
arrives amidst that throng that great spasm
            that panicked
and orgiastic shedding of doubt
            among the sweat-drenched
congregation wearing their pained masks of pleasure
            Let it sink into the floor
flood the catacombs below your feet
            where men have spent
all night escaping what they’ve come
            to expect
If you mean it throw your stumbling weight
            into the heavy doors
the bottom of your shoes slick with
            a party’s afterbirth
Slip into day’s narrow path
            the wrath of waking sunlight
Baby boy forget how winter burrows
            beneath the skin
let your mouth hang open with
            that uncertain
steadiness just this once
            a devouring gasp
This morning is nothing more than
            early-bird traffic and
the frost’s filed teeth and the truth that
            you may never see
another quite like it for as long as you search
            this city’s streets but
baby boy show him with the last
            swell of your tongue
now so practiced in this carnivorous dance
            that this cannot last
forever Prove to him you know
            that is the point

I’m in a long, bright white tunnel,
I pretend I’m not in a coffin.
A prince whispers in my ear;
no, it’s actually Prince –
These paper shorts feel scratchy
and the way they are slightly 
twisted off-center makes me
glad they are temporary. 
Isn’t everything temporary?
Let’s go crazy.
Hold still – as still as you can.
It’s the disembodied tenor voice 
of a digital wizard
Medicinal drums of the MRI
bang around me, humming
around the spaces in oversized 
headphones – my auditory shield.
Magnetic eyes scan my body
Let’s go crazy.
I wish I had worn socks.
There is a scuff mark in my
light tunnel, depreciating
its ethereal value, a fulsome bone white.
It’s a coffin again. I pretend
I am at peace. I can hear the machine
covering me with dirt. 
Let’s go crazy.
I’m not ready to go yet. Scan again.
Eyes closed, I attempt to make a human 
connection to the machine, as if
trying to lay myself bare –
vulnerable to its heated eyes.

    After Nighthawks by Edward Hopper


That woman in red—she could be your Aunt Sheila 
or my sister Carol just finished with a long evening 

at the cash register or a day of cutting and dying
someone’s hair for a night on the town. She’s tired

and just wants a quiet moment before she goes
home to more work. And the man serving her, 

his name is Eddie. He doesn’t expect much,
but he wants a life just like the rest of us.

Just like Grayson there in the suit, who won’t stop
talking. He could be your brother, right? He could be

the answer to someone’s prayer or the worst thing
that ever happened to Carol. And the nameless man

across the way, why is he in our space? Why 
bother us with his cold presence here in the dark?

Far flung waves
faintly calling from
my garden's end.

Each cycle of the moon
they grow braver
in their greeting.

Fences fall.

The
crashing
of
the
waves
rises.

Awoken
from sleep
as it wraps on my window.

Bricks falling
into its foaming mouth.

A golden shovel from Emily Dickinson's 
"A lane of Yellow led the eye"

April called me to Ball Ground, Georgia on A		
day born delicate for daffodils. Two lane
heartstrings, a mid-spring splendor state of
mind. Spaciously alone, I curve Yellow
Creek Road toward Gibbs Gardens, then led
by footpath through Torii Gate, the
entry for "Tsukiyama," Japanese Garden; my eye	
a window to the silence of Bonsai Juniper, unto
resilience wept on water by willows, a	 	
space of cultural harmony serenaded by purple
martin, balanced by man-made and natural: wood,	
stone, sculptures, and bridges. I strolled, one whose
essence renewed among cherry trees, blossoms soft
in valley; then I trekked strong up hillsides, inhabitants, 
rivers of daffodils flowing down golden and white to		
meet where the only purpose is simply to scent air and be 	
seen. I returned in isolated summer to flora whose grace surpasses 
sheltering in place, waterlilies below Monet bridge, solitude.