Surrender
To the blueness of sky
You may have wanted grey
And you may not be willing
To admit that
But the sun is there, instead—as big
As forgiveness
Beckoning the reluctant
To come out from the shadows
And shade, calling
The little children to scream
And to dance and play
With their balloons
In a mockery
(Though they don’t know it)
Of old age
But we do—those
Past half a life
Are acutely aware
Of hours passing
And of days
Aware of every dollar
In the pocket bundle
Its thickness and its thinness
And how some
Must be saved;
Remind yourself
You can’t spend everything
Much will disappear
And many will fail;
Getting blue instead of grey
And sunny days like this
And after all—it’s what you hoped for
Occasional bad weather
A relief from the sun
So don’t complain.

Today is not the day
You’ll remember
Yesterday may be
But it’s too soon
To tell—the collected
Coffee cups, cars washed
When the vehicle will just get
Dirty again—clothes gathered
From the dry cleaners
With the Russian guy there
Behind the counter
And his testy smile
Fingers riddled
With sewing needle holes
Wincing at each new customer—
Maybe these
Will be my memories
Who knows?
Or the dog that barks
At 3am each morning at coyotes
Or shadows or the sliver moon—
Why isn’t it more full
At the end of February—
Why does sleep come
In fits and starts
Between surrealistic dreams
Of fire, buildings collapsing
And planes plummeting to earth
Why is today
Not the day
I’ll remember?

Bleep Bleep Bleep
Goes the clock alarm
I can’t tell it to stop
Someone else is in charge
A voice
From the man’s throat
Who’s speaking—shaping
His words
Like no sound I have ever known
The learned images
That letters spell in words
People offer them
In an effort to be loved
And understood and noticed
He’s making his best effort
For all that, I am sure
But it’s somehow
Not good enough
According to my judgment
Again the clock goes
Bleep Bleep Bleep
The man stops talking
And I am saved.

The light outside
Might as well be shining
On sidewalks
In Egypt or in Spain
Or on the snow
At the top of Mt. Everest
For that matter
It’s not finding its way
Into this room
Where people speak
Of the light in dark things;
Remarks that struck and stuck
When they should have dissipated;
The errors of our ways…
In the street
The sun at 8am
Makes all the leaves
Bright prisms, finger paintings
In yellow, green and red
The hands of God
Touching everything—
Using the wind as a voice
And breath for all to share
And breathe—but it’s not shining
In this room, rather
It’s the light of bulbs
And will power and desires
Unmet, hanging like
Clothes unused
In an old closet
That might better have
Remained closed.

I could stare
At the mountains;
Wonder how they got there
And what creatures
Live in them—
Go into the washroom
In this very restaurant
And sturdy the mirror
For new lines and blemishes
I might have missed
Or watch the street
For odd colored cars—
Not blue or white or red
But maybe pinks
And purples and mauves
How often
Do you see those?
I could go back
To Ogden’s Dry Cleaners
At the corner, and ask
The Russian immigrant Daniel
And his wife Janna, the owners
If they’d rather be back
In Moscow, than here
They always say “No!”
But I keep asking
I don’t know why
Maybe is just one way
To kill five minutes.

Robert’s changing time
Moving the second hand
Of the old wall clock
Around, again
Like he knows the drill;
Turning minutes into hours;
Half hours into bus station waits
The vacant chairs
Beckoning takers
Over by the empty vending machines
Like unkept promises made;
We venture there
To the collective place
Show up and be consistent
Paint and keep a smile
On a face, when a scowl
Would be better suited
To the gamut of inner feelings
A sun circling doubt
Clouds shot through
With angry purple veins of light
Self loathing like pot holes
In the pavement of the street
We’ll have none of that—
The skewed temporary state
Yes—we’ll change the time, if necessary
To suit surrender’s pace
Remember that no words
Not even the best intentioned
Are forever—I will write
A poem about that;
Vanquished serenity
The struggle to stay
On the right side, sometimes—
And hope that someone
Will understand
Someday.

Write this poem
Before someone asks you
To do it; before
Someone tells you
It’s wrong—too short
Or too long
Maybe of no consequence
And serves no purpose
Other than to spread
Excess ink around the page
A dalliance with images
That would have had
No other place
Than here, where
Anyone who wants to
Can read it
And anyone who doesn’t
Can always
Look away.

If only
That didn’t happen—
The way he set
Those lemons
On the table
Artichokes not quite ripe
At the organic market
The sun across the valley
Slightly obscured by fog
The way she called
And didn’t leave a message
But you probably knew
What she wanted to say
As if it mattered
On Sunday in Meiner’s Oaks
With the motley
Flea market in full swing—
Beads, tie dye, macramé;
A man selling artisinal spoons…
Maybe you could find it there
If only
A retreat to the Seventies
Was appropriate in some way
But it was not
So we went to look
For Sabrina’s lost camera
Instead.

It’s dark by the courts
At Pepperdine
The denuded trees
Of late winter
Look like monsters
I’m waiting for Andre
My German friend and coach
To hit some tennis
He’s an animal out there
And can hit ‘em right by you
Whenever he wants—
Overhead smashes
Looping backhands
Forehand, down the line
Bullet passing shots—
Hey, I’m OK for fifty
Maybe a B or B plus
But Andre’s a star
He wins tournaments
People stop and watch
And stare—and when
I hit with him
I’m just kind of out there
A human backboard
To his machine gun ways
Just getting back as many
As I possibly can.

You will never
Trace this moment
It will not
Return to you
As it did
When it occurred, exactly
Like this evening;
The lights of the westbound PCH
Cars gliding dark LA canyons
Unknown to anyone
But drivers on missions
A lifetime of hurry
Saving minutes, spared moments
To make up a life
That’s cut into little pieces
By job and family and friends
Then the obligatory
Thoughts of death
Like grated cheese on pasta
Or butter on hot sourdough bread
Those intimations of demise
Just make everything
Taste better
For the privilege
Of being alive.