I couldn’t figure out
what to do
with the plastic spoon
I only used once
It didn’t seem ready
to be thrown away–
there are some items
you just let sit there
to decide what
to do… the plastic spoon
was one of them.

A sky like liquid–
the color of a drink
that cannot be made
today, its ocean contained
in eternal movement
undulation and sway
calmness apparently
before a storm unseen
suggested–not threatened
or mandatory, but
as the wine ages
its layers and complexity gain,
suggest past ages;
civilizations of the cask
and amphorae
Ones that watched
the moon and stars
rise like grapes
into ancient heavens
Blacker than actual night
more celebrated
than every toast ever made
wine you cannot try
will always be imagined
in flavor, length and memory–
Like constellations that vanished
millenia ago
but were recorded
on stone tablets
and papyrus scrolls
like those recently unearthed
in caves in which
the untouchable vintages
are stored
and sleep peacefully.

Looking out
the window on Wednesday
There is no tomorrow
only today, this day–
a garbage truck
meticulously picking up
pieces of yesterday
and the inscrutable crows
cacophonous, screeching
about the usual; maybe
it’s a cat, stalking
in the weeds–
or an old man walking
they don’t like…
What don’t I know
about everything?
Plenty, but that
makes no difference–
out the window
it is today
and I must try
to live it.

I was holding
this poem
in my left hand
like a baton to pass
or an empty pen
done writing…
that much was true
as you came in
the room
One idea away
from knowing it all–
insouciant, glib
smug, complacent
similar to me
at that early stage
of development;
an element of evolution
I could not fit in
to any other plan
So I sat back
and laughed instead
and asked the man
sitting next to me
If I could have
another sip of
his coffee.

I like it
when the ink
is primed
at the ready
in its pen
at my fingertips
and snags images
fast and clean
as they race
through my head
before they
disappear
getting them down
on the page
in this quest
for lasting lines;
acknowledging the role
words play
in this search
for the captured
phrase.

The Candy Dispenser
Disturbed me, there
by the dusty stair, dim tidbits
from the late Eighties;
neglected but iconic
in a sickly sweet way
I could not help
but want one of those
stiff and rasty nuggets
to throw or to chew:
If to chew, then to wretch
and spit out–
and If to throw
Hopefully at a human target
worthy of old
hard candy
used as bullets
and preferably with
a good, clean
shot, one that
would make my dread
of the dispenser
a moot point
in that it had become
a goldmine
for projectiles
If and when
the would be assasin
might open
it up.

There’s a cat outside my window
right now, stalking around
and it looks not quite as
terrified and slack jawed
as that deer did. But
it’s clearly in apprehension
and fear…just did a really fast
single take–not Compton’s
triple take, but his own
sort of I’M OUTTA HERE
head snap–and I started going
HERE KITTY KITTY KITTY!!!!
from behind the window
and he got scared and
took off. I don’t think
that cat has any appreciation
of his type’s past or future
or of the worth
of cat leadership
or cat art
or cat interstellar
space travel…

The dream soldiers march
in uncertain sleep–
some of them taken
before their time
suggested by the tactile scrape
of leaves against window panes
in February rain
seeking entry, offering guidance
a frightening, abrasive reminder
to be careful playing
the game of life…
Later, on the way through town
a snail is seen creeping
through puddle brine
along the path–not a hindrance
but an obligation for man
and creature alike
to plot a course and to navigate–
It’s grey this stormy Monday
But the sun is never
far away, behind
its fortress of clouds
Hunkered down
waiting to warm
man’s recalcitrance
and doubt, a star
for all animals
whether big or small
to depend upon;
the flowers, appearing early
this year, in gratitude
are like an army in themselves,
undaunted.

In the
naked rain
we are unclothed
by the truths
of desire…
Skin with
a wetness
known again;
there is no
outside, only
inside–
the rain
covers us
with its
willingness.

Put your head
against my chest
as you have done
and feel the darkness
of our love
like low laughter
from another room–
a chamber in which
they know the truth
but are afraid to tell;
the clouds come in
with the new storm
in the shape
of headless fishes
still swimming along
and other monsters
known and unknown;
ugly children
the horizon has borne
to terrify the citizens
of these placid coastal towns
who need the precipitation
like lonely souls need affection
but the price of rain
coming down becomes
the leaks, fissures and cracks
in our structures
heretofore undetected
which spring forth
with the deluge–
your pale hand
against my stomach
slipping down
the world in all
its glory and grandeur
which we must always
be prepared
to fight for
or to live without.