Holding the curios
of a precious past;
they’re rust and twisted tin
but what matters most
is how snugly they fit
on your shelf–
compartments of years
in a new wall
dividing two rooms
maybe a door soon
and some golden Buddhas
to give it the true feeling
of home–a few cartoons
and stories she did
as a kid–on yellow paper
about spiders
“gew” and snakes
that make you laugh
& smile when
you look at them
forty years later
as though they
were written yesterday.

I painted on
Klee’s book
down from the shelf–
big swaths, purple letters
spelling out inanities
about the freedom
of rats on the roof
and their endless search
for food–how human;
after dark, too…
And to think
I felt I could change
landscapes with verse
states of mind–
a frown into a smile
and it’s all true
until you open
the old book
to find it’s all
been painted before.

There is no silence
in this furious life–
only phones ringing
doors knocking
and answers required;
a manufactured wind
of half-truths
blows across the lawns
and parks, rustling
up litter which most
are too busy to pick up–
And so the mess grows
out of piles and cans
into art–armies of artists
at war with words
and paint & metal–
and in the end (which
never comes) we won’t
even see who wins.

The urgent doves
call out across the morning
to silent paintings
in blue and white
that aren’t listening
on the walls–
everything in its space
of confinement
tries in its life
to be noticed
to be heard…
The varied squirrels
prepare for their assault
on food–nuts, chips
and fruit, that humans
put out for them
as much to see them
feed wildly–and fight
as from any
altruism.

Hair descends
from its houses
on high–down
and across the low
indoor skies–to entwine
with its dusty brethren
of every shade
and texture
on the ground
in intimate
gridwork patterns
on the floors of our homes…
We race and rush
to clean hair up–
So too, the dust and grime
it picks as companions
But everything is in
the process
of beginning again
and asserts itself
shortly thereafter by reappearing
around table legs
and in corners
seeking renewed purpose
in elemental piles–
Soiled collectives
returning to source
making determined
cryptic statements
in spite of any effort
we put out.

Marzipan & moss
a wet day walking
in a rain forest–
the smell
of drying river stones
salt water taffy
being pulled
one summer
in the late 60′s
on Catalina Island
at Avalon–cinnamon toast
with maple syrup
and melted butter;
little lemon candies
in a tin from
Switzerland
when I was young;
the dark outside
as it lightens…
Lingering wellness
and an orange sun
coming up–I always
want more–it’s
the taste of a life
worth continuous brewing
and peanut butter
cups.

And they will
keep falling, too–
what we put up
with tape & tacks;
images which
always see the ground
as a final option–
a preferred destination;
sailing off walls
and landing face down
as if to defy
our fleeting notions
of design, our
innate desire
to decorate the surfaces
that should probably
be left naked
blank or plain.

The first thing said
early Tuesday is–
“Do not offer to buy
the Purple Lady breakfast…”
As she sits
with her assorted bags
and belongings
at the corner of
Carpinteria Avenue
and Linden, outside
the Bagel Place–and so
I don’t–but I’m hoping
it’s not something
I regret later on
in the day–or later on
in life…and because of that
I’m figuring a way
to go leave a couple bucks
for her without
the admonishers
knowing it.

Behind the lives
we live
are the drawers
closets & storage holds
no ones sees
and we don’t either–
putting things away
and finding them
years later–
the photo albums
inscribed books;
clothes received
as gifts
that got opened
hung up
and never used
until now, when
the shirt given
three Christmases ago
jumps out as an option
its voice saying “Why
did you forget? Try me on
and change your day!”
And it’s not our fault
what we find
from past lives
in hidden vaults–just
a reminder that all
we’ve forgotten
is never far from view.

Winter–never
the coldest months;
we await warmth
at home & imagine
summer a half year off–
sleeping somewhere
getting ready to blossom;
recalibrating–measuring
increments, softening
seeds that sleep
in banks of dirt…
It’s making plans
for waves, sunsets
and traffic all at once–
But now, in January’s
mock chill, we pretend
there’s snow
about to come
from a sky that
won’t even rain
for us.