Hemingway would scoff, a steaming mug
of Big Buck in his weathered hand
to carry him through paragraphs.
Bishop would lean on Sumatra’s
rich and earthy flavors.  Yeats might
choose Black and Tan out of spite.
Collins, Four Seasons-he was
just listening to Vivaldi
this morning while shaving.
Everyone avoids Jamaican Me Crazy,
its Hallmark name
the kiss of death.

I take one draw, through fluffy whipped cream
and leave it alone.
I think ahead to lunch,
the notebook again on the table,
and the prospect of its simple cover
perfectly complimented by the yin-yang
of a Co-jack grilled cheese.

I watched a film tonight

about a suicide note

and thought of you, mother-

a husband’s ink-stained hands,

a hole shot through two souls.

It said, “Listen to your heart,

I will speak to you there,”

and I remember you yesterday-

making coffee with one steady hand

as the other clutched your chest,

the faint smell of smoke

wafting from the toaster.

At the time, I thought you were

simply trying to get hold

of your dangling bifocals.

I am distracted by body parts—

shoulders, hands, neck—

your shell.

One silent week

in Bora Bora is all I desire—

walking unfamiliar beaches,

you in your mirrored sunglasses,

me wearing

my insides out.

Soygal Rinpoche

The people splash

stomp through puddles with

blinding yellow Wellies

cannonball through space

spraying, sloshing, soaking

stir up mud, making opaque

all thoughts, reason

rain dance

summon tsunamis

dive deep in

awkward rubber flippers

hurl rocks off bridges

drop pebbles into wells

build elaborate gutter systems to

direct flow

push plungers

add bubbles to baths

circle straws in glasses

add whirls to their pools

I am staring at my moat

waiting.

Hot sun casts its glittery shadow
atop swaying waves
sparking corroded wires

level head plunges
beneath its white path

marathon legs grow scales and
propel fluid bricks of lake
under eager skin

heart pumps through
fish schools to reach Bird Island
where you wait

with hard arms and soft breath ready
to answer any question
yes.

Watch your step.

Pale, lackluster
she is merely a thinker
drained of unrealized potential
coddled, old-fashioned-
a smile on her cute, dimpled face.

She would never take
care of herself.

Spoiled rotten-
rotting
rotting still
still rotting.

with a battalion of toys—

blocks, books, board games, binoculars.

We want things to keep them occupied

so there will be opportunity to talk.

They play quietly on the floor near the fireplace,

orange glow on soft cheeks.

We sip sweet manhattans,

nibble herbed chevre on toast points,

discuss the charm of our new president and how

he will make American life more dignified.

There is debate about remodeling,

a battery of opinions on music,

strategically planned trips and a recent

version of Macbeth on stage.

Children hold camp as we retreat

further into banality, a jungle

of language our only defense

against the stealth determination of Death,

who waits to ambush us all.

I never thought of it as dark-
confused, cynical, leery perhaps.
But dark? Dark is burnt toast, a scar, charcoal,
Death itself.

I admit to embracing wickedness some days-
basking in bitterness, apathy, judgment.
Doesn’t everyone?

Edgy-
now that seems more appropriate.
I like to teeter on the cliff
above the valley of oblivion-
write things down that won’t
make sense to anyone
not even me.

Better to be on edge
than in the dark.
From here I could jump
over to the camp of optimism, odes, the overt.

Probably not.

The Beach, Though Beautiful, Had Nothing

                               “The imperfect is our paradise.”
                                 Wallace Stevens

I was only thinking when I wrote the poem-
you know the one
observing the sand shifting on the beach, clouds
caressing waves at the horizon.
You could really hear
the surf, feel its freshwater breeze, see
North Point’s green tip across the bay.

Months have passed and no one
has appreciated that piece like you.
It was enough for me too
until this morning
reading his poem about carnations-
about a poem about carnations,
pristine bowl cupping perfect blossoms-
when I realized that
the beach, though beautiful
had nothing
to do with the loneliness I felt that day-
the way I wanted to run
across water, hop onto
uncertain clouds and ride
away from the shore
where all expectations of me
stand-
hollow wind through stone fort
near isolated elm.

The Crown of My Head Its Only Point of Contact

The sun is relentless-
trying to pry open
my clenched eyes to
the opportunites of the day, but
I hold fast

looking down, the crown of my head
its only point
of contact, determination
repelling its rays for
some unknown hero with
superhuman optimism
to absorb.

My will
lassos a far-away storm cloud,
tugging at it
like a leashed dog
who wants to linger
under a maple.
I pull it close to me,
its dark beauty my
gun-point companion,
though it has flowers to feed
rivers to fill.

I need it more-
the staticity of its pent-up drops
my mirror
as I savor the sour taste
I let sit, thickly, on
my dry tongue.

I know this cloud will not
hold its water forever, but if
I can stay here beneath it-
spoiled child with black balloon-
it could eventually
provide me a fine
wet blanket.

But you will put them there-find an unusual
link between my asymmetric smile and their Greek name,
make a witty comment about how we both
break through frozen ground to stand
blazing for a few weeks before giving way to
blooms with real stamina like echinacea or day lilies.

For now you sink down beneath care-free sheets
staring up at the chipped ceiling, smiling because
you are in no rush to get anywhere and ask me
to bring you a cup of coffee on
my way out.

Our Shine Would Be Unrivaled

Shave Off an Inch or Two

like a piece of furniture
dragging me from one room to the next to see
which corner I would fit into,
muttering about impossible measurements,
where you might shave off an inch here or there to
get a perfect fit. Eventually you quit
leaving me in the middle of the largest wall-
prisoner awaiting firing squad-
neither in your way nor
out of it.

Maybe you prefer pancakes-
a slippery square of butter sliding right of center
real maple syrup rivers running, a taste too pure for me.
They make pancakes for the microwave now.
I wonder if you would like those.
Your wife probably makes them from scratch though
I like to think she cheats
a bit with Bisquick.

I can see you after breakfast in bed,
the scar above your left ear dark
against the hotel’s crisp white pillowcase
a drippy grin on your mouth.
We’ve met just this once because
she might cut corners in the kitchen but
that’s as far as it goes.

I don’t know how I will ever see pancakes the same again-
a billowy short stack looking just like the pillows,
the syrup your brown skin
and that pat, buttery smile.

Softly Reaching Upward

A fine flower
knows no hour of discolor
no shaky state on distasteful soil
her only toil to be fragrant
with supple round petals
softly reaching upward
against the ashen sky.