Condition Avoided

Condition avoided

 

Tuesday morning I read the police attacked and

moved everyone out as the rest of us slept;

late Tuesday afternoon I read plays about

dementia, devotees and death; early Wednesday morning

I read Updike seeking synchopated sentences that were subtle in

descriptions of divorce, death and shattered idylls that left me senseless;

later. TMZ said Kim and Kris had been a sham and

Justin’s baby mama was still a mama but he wasn’t the papa.

OMG!

By Wednesday afternoon I’d avoided catatonia but not depression.

Was it the extra chocolate or the Salvation Army guy dancing to a boom box

instead of ringing a bell, or the random street fruit vendor who smiled and wished me well,

or the text that finished with x’s and o’s that hit with the precision of a guided missile or

perhaps it was the Asian guy serenely seated beside me on the uptown express

expertly folding a piece of red and gold origami paper into a miniature pterodactyl

oblivious to those of us who watched.

sounds that evoke

Sounds the evoke.

Grace notes from a cello serenade

a contrapunct to whalesong trills, hums, groans and clicks

join and echo in vaulted arches of sacred space

then return seek out and resonate in my solar plexus

encircle anticipation like night fog around a buoy – their

mellow sounds rendered piquant by brine, tide and moonlight filling space

between ebb and surge

sound that is felt, that is touched,

sound as rhythmical as our hips and breaths late at night,

as caressed as a well loved lover held close.

Willie Nelson joins the chorus, croons Stardust Memories in the darkness

their joined sounds  somehow evocative not dissonant,

that penetrate not invade

that summon memory from remote depths

then guides it past traps of analysis, second guesses and interpretation, and

leaves it -

as is -

at my heart’s vestibule where entry need not be sought:

the door is already prised open;

tears are already primed and positioned and

hang at nasal canthus like mussels on rocks in bitter cold tidal surges.

bon voyage to summer

I chuckled while thinking of cars full of people headed north to New England and upstate
speeding to watch colored leaves fall as I rambled through the beauty of Pelham Bay Park where
a brisk breeze blew across the lagoon and into the forest where
anglos, latinos, blacks and asians, alone like me,
or in units of varying integers passed and enjoyed the day
nodding their hellos to fellow seasonal naturalists
who also walked not hiked, and
none of whom sported a lick of LL Bean outdoor gear. 
The leaves were just beginning a riot of color diffusion above the peace
gathering themselves, brushing against one another, building to an explosive burst of color that will need
a week or two before, 
spent -
they fall.
The only honking came from geese in a landing pattern.

flight of angels

It was 6 pm: the bell tolled the angelus. I searched for angels and found they'd all flown.

Night Note

night note

i know as i write

that you are already asleep

gentle snore as you descend to where healing happens.

Awake i hold you in my heart

feel your breath on my cheek

your foot on my leg

your hand rests where it gently reached out and

found me; settled.

i watch you breathe

your eyes flicker and I

wonder what you are dreaming of and

where we will dance in tonight's moonlight:

it's like sex in the morning without the wine.

Game Day

Game Day

I’ve grown immune to dimension

a place enhanced by technology and pictures of tectonic plates

or smartphones smarter than those women who clutch them and who text

their bemoaned singularity and sobriety

even while bar hanging on a Sunday afternoon in places with multiple flat screen

televisions that display various sporting events all of which, regardless of team or event,

prompt commentary, jeers, cheers, swears and breathholding

from the team jersey bedecked boys they arrived with

as if any of those earnest exertions could influence an outcome

any more than their tight shirts – the ones that make their boobs, no matter how small

P O P –

and  their carefully coiffed hair can get them an engagement ring

from one of these lunkheads they’ve gone steady with for 5 years who’s yelling at the TV.

All is lost when a player is sacked or tackled:

shots are poured and gulped. Perspective is gone before 4 PM.

They too have sustained a hit, a loss of yards;

romance is gone even as they reluctantly follow the cheers,

dutifully put down their phones and clap carefully

so as to not ruin Saturday’s manicure.

The boys call for another round, yell “Fuck!” a lot,

fist bump, stomp their feet and slap each other on the ass

while yelling “WA HOO!”

My search for today’s dimension in context is solved.

This is NOT that which I seek.

It’s time to go.

Early Morning October Canticle

Early morning October Canticle

In the early morning of a premature October chill

I left my home where heat was pumping

the pipes hissing, coughing, protesting their call to duty;

I walked into sunshine, then into

a crowded train where the air conditioning still worked. I still had to stand.

I wondered about another cup of coffee before class until i yawned and

decided caffeinated would be the best answer.

Rain Delay

Rain Delay

Sitting here I consider elsewhere and think, when there, that

I wouldn’t mind if your legs were wrapped around my head

cheeks up, down, together, apart

our lips in synch, or not; together,

your turn, my turn, or not

it’s all good

love and lust

no need of stolen bases

when music plays, the players announced,
nod, assume their positions,
candles flicker in the dark

the playbook illuminated, its secrets

unhitched, players’ hesitation banished,

reticence yields to silhouetted signs, sighs and

recalculated holds, detours and slides

while referees ponder, scratch their heads, look heavenward and

decide whether to continue or cancel the event due to inclement weather

that hasn’t touched us

even as I look at you again and pat your knee.

Expiry Dates

Expiry Dates

Why are there expiry dates on Mallomars:

those chocolate marshmallow cookie delights

awaited, celebrated, Tweeted on arrival and

destined for oblivion the minute the box is opened?!

That is unless someone’s trying to prove they’ve got

WILLPOWER

just like those who won’t have a smoke before noon, decaf anything, Viagra

a drink before 5

cheese on a ham sandwich,

sex before marriage…

So it isn’t with Mallomars! Get real, people!

Mallomars are to food what Victoria’s Secret goods are to sex -

GRATIFICATION and

instant or ASAP if not sooner!

Meanwhile, hold the deferrals and bring a mop to aisle 6

‘cause somebody dropped the Miracle Whip that’s good indefinitely

unless it melts ‘cause it’s all fake

not like Mallomars and

not unlike pink packaged body parts that should have expiry dates

and blue pills that do.

Details. Some noted: some not

Details. Some noted: some not

She closed the curtains then shrugged

tacked to the side of the bed and rolled in

ignored an inquiring finger absently circling her right nipple

murmured from her spot on my right chest

“take your soul for a walk” and

crashed into sleep left

me staring at the ceiling

Its stuccoed peaks connected after awhile like a Rorschach slide show;

a flash of lightening and a passing midnight ambulance’s strobe

obliterated the trail left by her unfettered spirit

escaped like Tinker Bell through the open window bound for Neverland

Redirected, I tossed,

turned then finally pondered time itself

cursed 3 AM trash collections and bar closers on the street below and

wondered whether one can wander non-aimlessly yet without destination,

our accustomed link flummoxed by these unrelenting profane coordinates all

duly noted by the night shift green-eyed monster who’s perched in the corner,

who stares and won’t let me ignore the details that stalk me.

With respects to O'Neill

"And then I saw I'd always known that was the only possible way to give her peace and free her from the misery of loving me." Eugene O'Neill

“And then I saw I’d always known that was the only possible way to give me peace and free me from the misery of loving her.”  Vincent Maher

Sin Offering

Sin offering

Some critters eat their young.  We’re a nation that kills it young men.

Whether they’re executed in Afghanistan,

the streets of Detroit or East LA,

the sterile death rows of Texas and Georgia,

we screw ‘me over for years, then when they’re almost ready,

hand ‘em over, deliver and lift ‘em up, muss their hair, take a photo,

punch their tickets and send ‘em off. Dispatched.

We wave weakly, and wonderless, say:

“Today’s your day. We won’t see you later.”

We’re OK with that and, besides, we’ve decided that this is a job that’s way too big for

God to handle all by him/herself.

Dancin,’ Singin,’ Cheffin,’ Fuckin,’ Shoppin,’ Losing Weight, Interventions…

it doesn’t matter in the least, life goes on whether good or less good for us

but not them though ‘cause

they’re gone.

Hey….it’s got to be SOMEONE….better him than me. Right?

Besides, I’m somebody, you’re somebody, we’re somebodies;  he’s…..he’s…….he’s…..

Right?! C’mon!  Right?

Yeah.

Right.

Now, who’s next?

White Rain

White Rain

White rain falls silently

unnoticed

blankets all;

sleep holds me close, warm

the room slowly backlit

nudges me to fitful wakefulness

transports me to a place

where earth and sky

lake and shore

shiver in unison their

embrace spent

wistfulness

I'll get breakfast

I’ll get breakfast

It’s Monday, a day in the week and quarterback time. I’m a glop of ink

in the barrel of a pen waiting to get out, the right word apparently elusive.

I now know how a sperm feels: hang around, build, rush, release and boom!

you’re on your own -

to meet the same woman all the others are after.

Where the heck are all the women who outnumber the guys? Where? The ones

and the numbers sociologists report and mothers know and wring their hands about.

Everywhere and to anyone who’ll listen.

Those numbers have got to be good given the number of gay and bisexual guys out there:

hey, I’m just sayin’…

There ought to be a feeding frenzy for a guy who’s employed, clean,

straight, not a psycho and who’s interested in more than a random hook up.

Or

is that female angst on the cover of women’s magazines all a crock and do

modern women want a random act as much as guys and hold the commitment crap?

I’m beginning to think so.

Then again, something weird’s going on ‘cause lesbians I know can’t hook up

either with someone outside the coven of ol’ reliables. Same crap….

it’s all titillation until you interpret the signs you thought you read, reach out and go for the gusto

then it’s restroom and photo on the milk bottle time;

at 8 or 9 dollars a glass, I figure she can buy her own wine:

I’ll buy breakfast.

Triumph

Triumph

A soft dawn continued on the train

while I sank into my creased vinyl corner seat and

continued to sink and sink …

abruptly hitting something that pushed back against my denims!

A persistent wayward spring edge sprung a memory of a ’69 Triumph Spitfire

first met in a darkened stuff-strewn garage,

its springs peeked through worn tan leather its supple sheen surrendered to fray,

black dust covered emerald-glazed metal begged my now grimy fingers

for another chance to shine, its oil spot begging me

imploring that there was life to spare and still time to play its top down,

radio blasting, gears popping, road hugging throttle,

for wind to pin her T shirt to her breasts as subtly curved as its fenders

tease her hair all over the place like a model on a fashion shoot.

Who could resist?

I heard.

Oiled, shined, loved, drove, shouted and sang!

Its top down, wind in our faces, we dared the rain to catch us!

last call

last call crickets stridulating to moonshine and sunrise; acorns fall from trees, ping cars parked below.

City guys country song

City guys country song

It’s not the hot rainy night in Georgia, rain seeping into red soil

running off my hat and down the back of my neck,

it’s not the turquoise and silver jewelry you liked,

it’s not even the grits, hocks ‘n lemonade or

killer barbecue served up hot that I liked from a place that looks like a truck hit it

‘cause one did some years back,

it’s not that I’m here alone staring out the window

wondering

what was, what is, what’s next

tracing figures in my condensed breath that are streaked like my wiper blades

turning and twisting in time to my gut – realizing

there is no next.

The dog butts my leg; we go out back and

relieve ourselves at the same bush

shake ourselves off when we’re done but refrain

from kickin’ dirt and sniffin’ each other,

mosey down the street - in different directions,

stop ‘n stare each other down: I blink first,

give and walk along  his way –

it’s been one of those days this month 

besides which I’d walked my way already once

not looked back when you called after I’d up and left

you to the comforts of your old friends Bud Weiser and Marlboro Man

cigarette smoke swirls framing you in the fog like a mystery movie.

I still think on it and you now and then like when I’m cruising in the truck

with no a/c

just me and the dog both of us panting in the heat,

listening to FM ‘cause the CD player’s broke and someone boosted the iPod;

the women aren’t looking anymore an’ we ain’t either,

no loss, no gain, I reckin' and that’s ok because

we’re just city guys in a country song me, the dog, the truck even

the girl we left behind

hoping that someone will drop a coin

hit the select button and

listen to our one hit wonder somewhere in a booth at an all night diner

where they drink strong coffee, hum along, chat up a bored waitress who’s past given up waiting

and order flapjacks, biscuits 'n gravy.

Wolf Moon Dance

Wolf Moon Dance

wolf moon howls full on icy wind

lone cadenced wafts whips

through caverns of steel and glass

vortexed echoes

lift my soul from reticence to abandon

laugh keen weep stand

arms open to passing sky infinity;

she pauses

gazes through cloud and pillar

right to and through me and I back at and

through her recognized

we shudder at our union energized

move unfettered to familiar star dance

join circles of others

past future linked

carouse to dawn

Faked

Faked

We watched as the graph on the monitor showed the market base jumping

wondered if the chutes would kick in and hold and

if the commentators would just be quiet already –

someone’s dying for chrissake-

enough with the last gasp play by play!

He munched on a deli sandwich stuffed with Doritos and mumbled

“you can fake a return on investment or an orgasm but

you can’t fake reproductive endocrinology even at 8AM on a Monday in August”

to which point I had no rejoinder so

I simply nodded and faked my understanding.

Pieta sans corpus (for Robert Peraza mourning his son at the 9.11 memorial)

Pieta sans corpus

Daddy knelt at his son's crib
counted fingers and toes
kissed each one amazed at miracles
proudly laughed at how far and fast he could pee out of his Pampers,
nail his mother who'd bent too far,
played peekaboo and rubbed his belly until
baby giggles laughed from his toes
and squeezed themselves into the immortality of his aging DNA,
that made him long for home on workdays and
rushed his way from business trips,
invent stuff to do to extend their days until
it was the appointed time to let go
to let him launch
enjoy his present and future tenses
listen to the stories
NOT to be on his knees, numb in front of all these strangers
alone
clutching a past, heartbroken
fingers bleeding in a carved granite etching
all that's left of a son for him to hold
letters traced the way his eyes could scan the numbers
find his son's jersey even in a pack so he could yell and wave
let him know he was there
that he's still there, their bodies separated
none to embrace this time when the whistle blew
the bell tolled,
a pieta without a body.

Decreed

Decreed.

Dawdled

disjointed doodled dechilded detached dejected

defriended

doubted dulled disconnected disoriented discombobulated

disemboweled

disarticulated dissected desiccated derided disgraced

disgusted,

declined dredged delineated

documented;

deadlines deliberately demurred direly desperately

delayed,

decided decreed declared:

“Divorced.”

Twin Clematis

I'm awake.
Stillness. Not a sound from anything since the middle of the night.
The usual crowd of crickets birds and dogs silent past dawn.
Nothing.
Silence. Past quiet.
Dead
Silence.
For the first time all season, my clematis opens
a second flower
they, two, stand moved but unmoving in a silent breeze.

10 Years Out or There is a Season

10 Years Out or There is a Season

It’s ten years out. Already.

I don’t know what I’ll be doing.

I can tell you what I won’t do though:

I will not cry, choke, cough, gasp or startle at loud noises,

I will not listen to bagpipes serenading lists of those who died and

of those whose names yet await in the wings,

I will not watch military flyovers, flag wavers, photo montages or multiangle videos,

I will not listen to a single politician,

I will not go to church.

I will not fly a flag from my car’s rear window. Or anywhere.

I will not drive away as fast and as far as my car will take me and that wifi cannot reach.

I will not condemn Muslims any more or less than Christians, Jews, pagans, atheists, agnostics, secularists, Republicans or Democrats:

that about gets everyone. I’m good: they’re good.

I will not pray to the God of my childhood for that god no longer gives joy to my youth:

that god fuels way too much bizarre behavior in otherwise rational people

who claim his heavenly blessings and to act on his will.

I will not get white knuckles, diarrhea, reflux or palpitations;

I will not have nightmares whether asleep or awake.

I will not listen to justifications of war and violence of any kind levied on innocents.

I will not backslap the militaryindustrial complex.

I will not watch Fox News or Colbert nor will I sing patriotic or religious songs.

I will not remain with any who do.

I am alive until I am dead: I embrace life and the dawn.

I lift up those who have died and those who wait.

I move until I can’t move any longer.

I embrace peace always and in all ways. I do not hate. I will not hate.

I thank the universe for love, life and those who still strive for harmony.

I will not look back, not even in a rearview mirror held in place tempting me to do so.

I embrace irony especially love from unexpected and unscripted sources,

I laugh at absurdity and beware the zealot.

There is a statute of limitations on all things including grudges and freaking out.

It’s run.

There’s no cause of action remaining. 

Don Ho is NOT in the house

Don Ho is NOT in the house

You’re not here so I charged the dust buster

drank a beer, ate a burger and tuned the ukulele

to a bookmarked program on the computer.

I’m no percussionist but I can tap my feet in time to

sunbeam and raindrop

heartbeat and eyeblink and

sing a song of sixpence;

feel what’s around me,

whoop and sway like a hula dancer in my living room

because there’s no one there to make fun,

or shimmy like a belly dancer, whirl like a Dervish or even boogie to a zumba routine, the

crickets outside clickclacking like castanets

their accompaniment tireless, insatiable, mesmerizing and inviting.

I’m entranced, let go, get lost in the moment when nothing else matters and

there’s no critics, no one to please but myself

released from convention, the improv embraced:

“opus for ukulele dust buster foot pedal kazoo and recorded highland bagpipe.”

Exits.

Exits.

When I left nothing changed, nothing was touched

everything remained in its place: stacked books on the bedside table,

vacation pictures, the shower curtain, slippers on the floor by the bed,

dust on the turntable, LPs and top shelves she couldn’t see, never used –

status quo, like September 12^th, memorialized as if someone had died:

preserved in case they hadn’t;

when the dog died 2 years later she finally opened the windows,

had the floors redone, bought new area rugs and had the light fixtures changed.

She got an account at the gourmet grocery store and leased a car. 

The housekeeper was instructed, to a wagging metronomic finger once used

not infrequently at me to make her point, drive her issue,

render me a child -

“to use the damned stepstool if she couldn’t reach”;

someone painted the door jambs off white semi gloss 23 inches up from the floor so the

top and bottom finally matched.

It turns out that not all currencies in Europe or even in North America match and

at some places you still show a passport

even in places where they understand English

but not Arabic, Farsi, Finnish or Chinese.

I still don’t understand everything that happened or why we no longer match.

But we don’t.

It was time to remove your photos from my phone,

request a return of the entry key and to show you the exit

even as my heart broke in time to the staccato clicks of your fading footsteps

and despite the “Fuck you” tossed my way over your right shoulder.

fall sinking

fall sinking

I know there’s a lake somewhere beneath the fog

a dock, some Adirondack chairs, Grumman canoe, Sunfish sailboat

fresh pine plantings at the shoreline to replace those recently hewn and

floated off by a beaver who’d built a lodge 80 yards further along – without permits! -

over at the edges of the camp

the one that closed at the end of the season

twenty years ago and never re-opened

its buildings sagging falling apart some tipping over

dampness from fog and rain rotting uprights, joists and flooring

prising them season by season

from foundations, laughter and songs of kids now with their own but no where

to send them for the session.

I know there’s a lake somewhere beneath the fog

shrouded, wrapped, enfolded, sleeping;

still I squint past the lawn down the hill to a golf bunker placed and

your favored garden Buddha displaced by a son who’s embraced Rory and Jesus

denounced Tiger and gleefully destroyed idols like the Taliban at Bamiyam.

It’s early September and leaves already fall. Flat. They’re so soggy, they splat,

can’t crinkle yet arrange themselves as a runway on which

a doe and her twins saunter by silent and casually attitudinal.

An owl hoots; I reply “Whooooo’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?” then ponder

if I even exist and wonder if Martha would divorce me too if I did.

Rain continues even as the fog lifts slowly

pulling her hemline upward like a stripper in an old cowboy movie

not like the already half naked babes in a late night pay per view special,

shore, shallows, swimmable and, finally, sailable depths revealed

the way you used to when we first met, all modulated to our music:

the tease, the look, loosen, rearrange and remove. Very effective.

It was riveting until I realized you’d come undone,

were painted not caulked and were taking on water

sinking before my eyes your insistence that you were now a submarine a

conjured fantasy that only you managed to see.

The rain stopped, the sun broke, fog lifted, the lake fixed and landlocked:

your berth's empty:

you’d capsized without a sound.

A younger owl tweets. I look, shrug, type “Albee…Edwin Albee” hit reply.

An acorn drops, ricochets off branches

clunk clack booooooong crack click

falls like a ball in an arcade pinball machine that

hits leaves stems … bing bing

cartwheels around branches …cling ding clackka clackka

flies down the trunk …  boing boing bing

slips past the keep in play flippers thwacks me in the head and…. SCORES!

bing bing bing bing bing!

I’m startled though I heard it coming even tracked its path.

There’s a crack and another’s in play.

I remain hoping that acorns don’t strike twice yet look upwards before

scanning the surface to see if you’ll somehow kick free and emerge gasping and alive.

I hum the Titanic theme.

There are no bubbles and the water’s already cold where you sank.

Around me, it’s a glorious day.

Call Dropped

Call dropped.

We’re writers – poets – yet don’t seem to communicate well.

At least with each other in spite of electronic access

presumably comprehended imagistic word choices and esoteric free

wordsmithing with wifi,

familiar, not confused, analogies,

clear, clever similes that should be grasped

given age, experience, scars,

shared

education, idiom, grammatical infrastructure, coerced pedagogical insights, even

conjured supple ellipses segued like parting lovers in morning’s light;

there’s a comprehension problem, my dear, as

words meanings intents just fly by in the express lanes

without stopping for paid interlopers or even interpreters which is worse

because you are one so I guess that makes me an interloper which I think I’m not.

Apparently you have to come to think of me as one

(which is better by far than to be thought of than as a stalker)

in spite of your disarming smile and easy endearments that continue, invite,

confuse and render me….

umlautless.

At this point I don’t know who to emulate or even embrace:

Catullus, Dante, Hugo, Lewis and Clark or Hefner:

each a guy with a BabeMuse in sight who’s seemingly grasped then somehow lost to the vapors –

a triple consonant stand -

their only option remaining:

fashion a fantasy,

acquiesce to the unassailability of the mountain, or

or be consigned to eternal categorization.

I suppose there’s always radio.

I was an anesthetist. I'm good at finding hearts

I was an anesthetist. I’m good at finding hearts

I seek safe passage not still waters.

I poke and prod seek signs of life

some sort of soundbreathsensation generated from your side of the bed to mine

secretive finger sorties under the sheets to see if you’re there,

clothed or not,

loose or shrink-wrapped,

determine whether Damocles’sword remains suspended from the ceiling fan or

lies waiting in the space between us like a slicer at the latticini on the corner, or

is reposed and sheathed so that I might not be.

I was an anesthetist. I’m good at finding hearts

detecting normal, extraordinary,

aberrances of rhythm and percussion:

know what’s in your gas tank and in your bladder

what makes you tick and how often.

You put my skills to the test, never let up

once, even took advantage of my predictability or

weariness – I still can’t remember which - to execute, short circuit, launch

the unanticipated

a reaction from out of my nowhere: your completely calculated move.

You were asleep. I know sleep. I was an anesthetist. I counted.

Loose. I know you were. Take my word on it.

I looked and discovered you’d waxed all your pubic hair and

had tattooed my name on your inner thigh in Kelly green ink

the “i” dotted with a purple heart.

I took hold of what was available as you slept and, stymied, I tossed then slept.

Fitfully.

Later, you sought, found, pulled me, disoriented but untangled, into your readiness

after I’d simply gotten up to pee,

drink cold water and adjust the air conditioner some time around 3:43 AM.

Minglings

Minglings

She blushed, grinned and covered her mouth

said she hadn’t brushed her teeth after a late breakfast, not brunch, because

she did not want peppermint interfering with the umamic lingerings of her

black pudding and egg on toasted white with a dab of Irish lightly salted butter and

that lovely cup of black tea in her special mug- the one with Johnny Depp

as Cap’n Jack Sparrow on it;

bereft of The Times, it had made her day on a blustery Tuesday morning

when even leaves flew past as fast as sparrows while

she sat still looking out the window that whistled decrescendos in dactylic spondee;

I laughed, leaned over and kissed her anyway.  I hadn’t eaten.

My coffee breath swirled into hers, swished and savored:

our afternoon delight accomplished in full view of passersby.

I remembered her name.