Yes I did;

It’s true–threw

A blue razor

Across the room

In the dark–why?

The old adage applies–

“Because I could…”

It made no sense

Not much does

Utterly random–a bad shot

What it hit?

The base of an old couch

Near the garbage can

But not in

Where the razor came to sit

Along with the rest

Of the Universe.

The fields

Of early Summer

Over there–past Sunset Blvd

Turning yellow and brown

Still, for all purpose, in Spring

Or even Winter;

They have no memory of past years

Or do they–in some

Unknown life of plants and rocks?

Maybe they’re like us

And look forward to sunlight

And to water

Bees visiting and birds–

The June butterflies on gusts

Like airborne petals

The world within itself

Having taken flight…

Four doves on a wire;

Do the fields wish

They would descend

And land on their branches

And plants sooner–visits

From those distant relatives

To make the time go faster;

Taking stock of the legions

Of squirrels and gophers

Digging their labyrinths underneath

And dens and alcoves

The teeming ants

The serpentine patterns of snakes

In trail dust–

Does any of this matter

To the fields of early Summer?

I may never know

But it matters to me.

Bring in the grapes

Ruby red and emerald;

Bring in the golden hay and melons

Bring in the flowers

Of every shape and color

From the fields

Put them in baskets

Out on window sills

And, by mid-summer, in the middle

Of all our tables

It is fast approaching harvest

A time for ripeness

And gathering

Let this great bounty

Of earth and agriculture

Of toil and soil be shared;

Neither neglected nor hoarded

But harvested and divided freely

Among the hungry, the expectant

And the needy

Would we have it

Any other way?

These warm summer days

You want to talk about

The pleasant weather

Or those three plastic chairs

Stacked in the alley

Or that tan squirrel

Deftly scampering

Across a phone wire

But maybe it’s best

Left unsaid; an exercise

In not saying

Too much.

I wonder

What those stars are

One sees

When you get up too fast

Or blow a nose

Too hard–like sparks

That fleet & snake

Across the field

Of vision–little asteroids

Or comets released

From some pent-up corner

Of self, freed

From dark matter

In a universe

Of its own understanding; one

That we know little or

Nothing about–

Except, sometimes

We see the stars

On the edge of marginal

Or strained consciousness;

Stars that remind us

We are made of impulse

And of light and true

Stardust.

Couldn’t

You see it then?

Dark shade across half a face–

Dawn arrived too soon

That inexplicable feeling

At a season change

That can’t be seen–definite

In scrape of leaf; new green

A sound which thrills and haunts

Just the same

In the flower-crowned brush–

Couldn’t you see it then

In the land of interminable summer?

The clouds up ahead;

Storms unformed in the vicissitudes

Of August, your birth month

A fleeting date on paper

And that’s really all

That was left in the picture;

Desperate scratchmarks

Where the pencil lost its lead

On the paper; clawings

Like cuts or cuneiform stabs;

A crab’s telling escape

Across dry sand–gull running in pursuit

Not airborne–no; rooted

to the page without wings

But that’s how pictures are made

In a life

Like this.

The red mountain

Mythic–as it sits

Against a sinking sky

Rising as we climb

Across it; diligent

The same as rock–resisting

Odd dollar bills scattered

At the summit

Around an enigmatic monument

To someone–feats unknown

Our accomplishments;

We should have left them

No more in our pockets

Than the wind

Trailing down the walk

Like dust itself, well settled

Spending the day

One, smooth pebble at a time

The lilac bluer than we’d ever known

Not actually a color

But a shade or hue;

These shadows on stone

Beyond interpretation

No definition of their vague

Disturbing darkness

Except to say it is reminiscent

In its transience

To our own.

Sitting

With the day

Going past

In shades

Of light and shadow–

It is you

Who I am talking to

Going by, yourself

In the street

But I am only

talking to myself,

In actuality;

A sad retreat–

You are no one

I really know

And these, other, unfamiliar

Words in French

Or a crude

Half-invented Creole: “L’Etranger!

Une partie de l’ombre, friend

I never had…”

So that’s what is left

at 5:32pm in mid June;

Regret; a mild resentment

The color of sunburned flesh

And me, reaching

For an antidote

In the medicine cabinet

And finding the can

Empty with its

Own angry

Hissing sound.

Time

Escapes me;

Leaves nothing

But forever

And

Now.

Slow down–

What’s the rush?

There will still be water

Or tea or coffee enough

In the cup

Though rumor would make it

Half full, even empty

It is not;

And what about

That amazing spoon

Which usually sits idle

In the drawer?

Pull it out and use it;

Feel its perfect purpose

What it was designed for–

Stirring sugar, honey or other

Ingredients of worth and enhancement

Into your chosen beverage

If you take the time

To decide what’s right

For today’s taste and flavor…

So why not slow down;

What’s the rush?

Go to the drawer of riches

And see what miracles

The amazing spoon

Can perform.