I’m putting

My best poetic foot forward

But questioning intently (as always)

If anyone will notice

The self-indulgent gatherer

Of image, symbol, simile

And metaphor

Looking for acceptance

& recognition

Of any sort

Like a tired bird in flight

Seeking a branch

On which to land–

A solid, safe place

Where the words and references

Make sense: afternoon sunlight

Filtered through a grove of oaks

Looking mysterious, magnificent;

A field of effusive spring mustard

Appearing cheerful, ebullient, innocent…

Or am I just trying

To lure you in–

To a place where you call

Or write and mention

“Hey–that’s good work there…

It made me feel happy

And brighter about my day…”

So I ask

What am I looking for

When I put

My best poetic foot forward?

Is it being true to myself

And the inherent nature

Of capturing an image–

Or is it merely

Another way to get attention, a kudo

And a much-needed pat

On the back

For a well intentioned

Burst of words.

An eating beast

That’s what we are–

Eating food

Edible scenery

Delicious perspectives;

Everything on the table

And then gnawed scraps

That fell on the floor

Asking someone–a friend

Sitting next to you

If they are done with theirs

So you can lean over

And have some more–

An eating beast, intent

On self-satisfaction

Filling up; scouring shelves

And refrigerator compartments

And freezer nooks

For what might

Have been missed:

Ice cream, chocolate, cookies–

Pulling it all out

And then

Eating it up.

Back against a wall

By the PCH

Appearing to be asleep;

A boy I’ll never know

How he got there

Or where he’s going

Beyond my grasp;

Headed west

His head bowed

Maybe dreaming of sailing

Or walking his dog

Or a concert by Pearl Jam

He once saw–

That’s it–two people

Like unconnected points

In the universe

Living out

Their different roles

In the day–

Never to meet

I don’t know why

I’ll keep thinking

Of that.

A squirrel

Climbs the telephone pole

At record speed;

Patrick appears mysteriously

Across the lawn

Says HI

And vanishes;

Strange things

Are happening

In Pacific Palisades

Beside the orderly

Town square

Early on, 7am, Sunday

What’s next?

A flock of crows

Intent on taking over;

Three dogs on the same leash

Marching in a row

Maybe in cahoots with

The crows?

Coffee baristas

Announcing themselves as daughters

Of aristocrats

From venerable, land-owning families

In Costa Rica–in charge

Of your morning drink;

This town is upside down

Before the sun

Has even risen

Or maybe it’s just the way

I see it.

Death

Is ahead of us

Frankly–

All around

And Kafka says

What must be done

Is to blot out this picture

Or obscure it

In our lifetimes;

But what about

The falling leaf outside?

The suddenness

Of demise

And the rumbling

In the heart?

I will try

To look away;

I will try

Not to feel it

For today.

I want to tell time

To “F off”

In the grey moments of Saturday

When there is nothing else

But demise

To think about

But there is no one specific

To tell it to, no one

Except a man I saw

On the way home

In the street

With a nondescript face

Digging through garbage cans

Looking for something–

There is no way to stop

This madness–the inequality

Of men at odds–

Of being born and the fact

Time itself and life

Will win in the end…

All these little endings

These champions of death

The accumulation urge

From which we suffer

And covetousness

And controlling possessions

Like a drawer full of saved up change

And toothpicks and paperclips

And odd, broken glasses

I can go nowhere with this–

My complaint, my life

At almost 52, winding down

Jacked up on gourmet

Mexican coffee

And hoping to return

To the street

And find that indigent, beggar

Homeless man; ask him the time

And not care

And swear at him

Before giving him a dollar

And maybe

Some change.

A fly

Flies in

To my room;

I instinctively

Want to kill it

But I don’t

What right do I have

To take a life–

Even such a small one

As this?

None.

So it goes about

Its business

Of buzzing and circling

And hitting the window

Time and again

Trying to fly through

Not getting out

And I sit

Watching the fly

Do this

Still wanting

To kill it.

A piece of white dust

Floats by

And I think

“There goes the world”

Last night’s

Yellow moon (where we quoted

Lyrics from songs passing

By Oxnard)

Still ridiculously high

In the morning blue

Refusing to go–

And no sense

Of who will win

Or sustain or survive

In this race

That is clearly competetive

In spite of exortations

To “lighten up, have fun

And stay on the train long enough…”

What train?

I am sitting at home

In the small room

Which I shouldn’t tell you;

The moon is sitting in the sky

Smug, full of itself, complacent

And I don’t know

Where you are–

Probably asleep somewhere

With a parted smile

Blissfully unaware

Of all this gnashing.

This is a poem

On a receipt;

You don’t know that

For certain, but

You’ll have

To take my word for it–

Trust, an implicit part

Of the poetic process–

The sense

That these images

And observations

Are true and correct

And the hope

That you will read them

With an open mind

And without doubt

Or judgment…

After all–

It’s only a poem

I wrote

On a receipt.

This is a poem

About a poem–its moons

And rocks and trees

And unrelated stars

Except that everything is related;

Connected like dots by words

In the poems that poets write–

Making sense of the senseless;

The oddball images seen randomly

And collected in ink and print

Like paper scraps stapled

To fences–a universe

Of our own making;

Old signs torn apart and reassembled–

The white bird

Flying in circles

For no apparent reason

Maybe tracing Leonardo’s theory

Of men flying with fabricated wings

Or simply chasing spring flies

And gnats to eat…

I don’t know which

But it’s the poem’s responsibility

To find out–that’s what they do;

Dig beneath the surface

Of everything for dust and clues

And artifacts

And asking questions

Like these

And offering them up

For inspection

To you.