How wet

Is the world of animals

When it rains?

And just how dry

Their nests and homes

And shelters?

In the downpour

I wonder about such things;

The relative protectiveness

Of fur and feathers

Against elements

Like wind and storm

Or even straw and burrows…

Our skin, with a skeleton

Of wood and brick and plaster

Around it–civilization

Growing an exterior

To protect its own; leaving

All the others out there

Unless dog or caged bird

Or docile reptile–one

That made a deal

Of some kind long ago

To come in from the cold

Let us feed them

Keep their kind warm and safe

And pet them occasionally

Or at will–so as not

To have to face

The sudden peril

Of an October squall

Or a November chill

Or the flood of December

January, still.

There are harvests

From places unexpected

Like fingertips

And tree limbs;

The leaves that fall

These words

Instead of blood

Black ink on a page

A picture

Not too different

To be understood

Leave it alone, this life

Light on a wave

Creatures from another age

Evolving to this one

Our limbs, once fins

And claws

Still searching–grasp, grope

With animal intent

For purpose

Yes, there is meaning

To it all

In a harvest

Unexpected.

The hand

That points out fault

Is often the one committing it–

People aiming guns

In faded photos

Later blaming superiors;

Our parents decrying

Ethical misconduct

When it has been

Their modus operandi

The glaring contradictions

Of human behavior;

Kindness and evil living

In the same person;

These are hard to reconcile

And that remains the challenge–

I pass by three mirrors

Hanging in an empty optical store

At 7am

What do these gaping surfaces

Tell me of myself?

Of the search for Truth

And common neglect

Misjudgment and self deception encountered

In the process?

I will go in that store later

And look at all those mirrors

As I often do, seeking

Lines and lies and faults

Of my own

And maybe after

A good hard look

I will even decide to buy

Yet another new pair

Of glasses.

The woman

Who wrote the book STETYL

About Polish ghettos

In WWII

Died a year ago

In her yellow bed

Grey hair matted

Until no fire could burn it

Only the wishes of relatives

Who used up her morphine

On themselves

She had been my friend;

Hard of hearing, strained

To catch every word

Near the end:

“Whaaaat?”

“Whaaat was that you said, Marin?”

I wasn’t sure

Her real name was Rose

Eleanor, maybe Margaret;

Names made of letters

Almost words, but allegedly

Containing more meaning;

Titles, purpose, bearing–

Hers was a meaningful life

She helped people

For $300 an hour

The sick, the uncertain

Alcoholics with their melancholia

An NYC trained psychoanalyst

“These aren’t problems of the mind”

She once told me

“They are problems of nurture, problems

You have with your mother…”

I wonder if her ashes

Still feel the vibrations

Of the world

Through their urn.

A smiling plastic dog

The size of a Volkswagen

At the entrance

In its glass cage;

Cost: $300,000

Geisha girls grinning

In Catholic school miniskirts

With black stockings

Serving watermelon slices on sticks

And sushi

And smoked chicken

Everything in pink

That isn’t garish green

Or neon blue; portraits

Of Tokyo kids

In Court of Louis XIV clothes

Looking like virginal Madonnas

Smaller, stuffed cat and canine sculptures

In skirts, also smiling–price tag

According to DK

$60,000 apiece but they might

Make a deal

I like the stainless steel darts

On the formica tables

For sale, or maybe

Just part of the collection–

To pull them out, paint ’em red

And throw them hard

At everything in the exhibits

Would have made

A perfect statement

At the Japanese

Art opening.

At dawn

With red

And pink and orange

Coming up

There’s suddenly a man

Walking slowly

Much too slowly

Across the cross walk

Deliberate steps, one

By one, by one

Almost to a crawl;

Making me pause

Hesitate, back off–

Maybe he’s waiting

For the world

And I am not…

Run on caffeine

Gas pedals, schedules

Immediacy

And now!

We two clearly

At odds, still

I don’t rev up

Lurch forward

Or honk–the distance

Between us

Not so much reality

As concept

My opinion, not his

The situation

Best left

Alone.

Maybe I imagined everything;

The young years, feeling bright

About the future–blue skies

Seemingly without ending

Warm sand, which, after swimming

We’d grasp and clutch to our chests

The smell of seaweed

Driftwood fires and their incense

Remaking everything

Later in the game–

The stars in the black night

Soon to be puzzled over

By other eyes

Fresher and better to the test–

This bed I’m in, soon to be

A new space, length

And kind

Of sleep…

Permanence, a joke

The temporal, a gift

We cannot keep

Until it’s nearly gone

When, of course

You want it all back.

I saw red

Around the edges

Of black letters, like

There was a world

Behind the world–

Something always hidden;

Unknown, beyond

Understanding–

Halos, auras

A presence undefined

And suggestion of passage

To somewhere deeper

With unestablished meaning

Full of potential

Not so much

The surface existence

We try to live

Of certainty

Comfort and security

But one of letting go

And allowing life

To lead

The way.

Near 14th and Montana

A small girl in red

On a tree swing

Is being pushed out

In high arcs over the street

Like a little astronaut

Returning…returning…returning

To the point of origin

A strip of lawn

And rising back up

Clutching the ropes

Like a tightrope walker might

A balance stick

Or a trapeze artist

The hands of partners

In mid air: full house

Sixty feet to the rings below

Even a space shuttle walker

Tied by a tether

To the miniscule projectile

Upon curve of earth and cloud

Red continents, blue oceans

400 miles down…

Girl in red

On a tree swing

She appears one more time

In my rear view

The most free

And fleeting sight

I have seen all day

And filling me

With a need to escape

And more than just

A little envy.

We went looking

For a village

In upper Carmel Valley

One summer–found

A run-down trailer park instead

A bar already full at noon

People playing pool

Smoke clouds, red for rent

And for sale signs

And a dry creek bed;

Beer cans, cigarette packs

Cars propped up on blocks

Rusty refuse

Not exactly the idyll

We’d imagined

Among the oaks and pines

But a glimpse

Of another America

You might find

In any valley or state

If you search too hard

For paradise

Or not hard enough.