A man
with a paint brush
in his hand
a bird
with a twig
in her mouth
on a branch
a child riding
a red tricycle
in happy circles
a kite bobbing
in the wind
with no way
to see who’s
at the other end–
there is so much
to do in life
I don’t know
exactly where
I fit in.

Near Palisades’ tidy park
the long faces
of morning are offset
by a smiling yellow dog
tied to a post;
he apparently knows something
I don’t–a sense
of simple certainty
of imminent food and water
that he’ll be sleeping soon
no doubt, curled up
in a ball in afternoon sun…
I walk past
in one of my uneven moods:
grumpy
pensive
obsessive
caffeinated
edgy
As he looks up, I say
HEY BUDDY! And
I pat his head–
the mechanical tail
begins to wag
and he smiles
even more broadly
revealing unused fangs
bright pink gums
and some slobbery
white foam; maybe
this is a dog
who can teach me
a few things:
How to settle down
sit in a corner
Mellow out
and to wait patiently
for the arrival
of my daily bone.

I look around
and it is all
lost art;
images I made
but can no longer find
in this maze
of shadow and light
they have dissipated
to wood grain
sun on trees
a fleeting feeling
on skin, of pain
a pine needle
trapped against the window
a fly, flying
desperate trapezoids
in the heat
of the room–
lost art, something
I once made
now vague in memory
like your fading touch
on a summer day
never to be felt again;
pictures in a box
I have misplaced
that may have
never been painted
in the first place.

At the intersection
I didn’t like his smooth skin;
he looked like a statue
from the Vatican
behind the wheel
of a garish yellow minivan
chewing gum as if
he hoped to find
its hidden inner meaning
Then, a pink bubble emerged
as the light turned green
And I sped off
Having had enough
of this oddball, this creep
and more than a little
upset with myself
that I had such
strong and bitter judgment
for someone I’d known
not even long enough
to ask his name.

“End Turkish Denial”
the Crescent Heights banner read
past Little Ethopia
summer nascent spring heat;
the hard stare in
an unemployed actor’s eye
helicoptors circling lazily
over the heart of our city;
a shootout it would seem
The look in a lover
that is not love;
The unrealized image
In a painter’s mind
Needing pigment–
having none…
A world disappearing
in the rearview
alone on the parade route
with protesters
from Lebanon
the helicopters had
turned around–it was
the end of an era
but another one
had begun
As riot police arrived
and told everyone
to go home.

There are no clues
if the fingerprints
of the day aren’t enough
But you search
for smudges against
the window, old escapes
traces of light
in the sky
that survived the black
woven amongst the bitter stars
like hope…
In the fields
outside town
the big rocks and oaks
look like vestiges
of a lost map
showing the way
to ancient places
where life was innocent
and unspoiled
But later in the day
in harder sun
You see they are all
only buildings
cement and parking lots;
the illusion remains
there will be
a different life
every time
you look.

The empty cup
fell again
from my desk
and broke, this time–
it had survived
other falls
but not this one;
seven pieces
on the floor
cold and sharp
I pick them up
carefully
and throw them out
it is a sincere ritual
for a vessel
that served me well
and one that
I loved.

We found
each other
But I don’t
like you
and you say
you never loved
me–never
wanted love,
weren’t ready–
I’m up early
writing, afraid
to see if
the stars are out–
If so, they
will be mocked
by the black
behind them
the nothingness
the moon
knows nothing at all
looks stupid
and vain up there
mute witness
to absurdity
I write hoping
you’ll change
your mind
But I know
words won’t
change a
thing.

The Santa Anas
assault our streets
fuel fear
and fire
and dryness
typical of this place
there is something
spent, painful, rushed
to it all.

Someone left
litter at the corner again;
hamburger wrappers
& empty cups
the wind wreaks havoc;
stirs the mess
it’s an opportunity
for service

I am lazy
feel insulted
alone
The wind is not
my friend
are you?

Who can explain
why I care any more?
I walk on
with this knife
in my hand–a pen
I search for paper
in the whipping wind
Maybe I will write
a bitter poem
about you.

I may be
a decent poet
but not a
great one
describing color
and light and the
gritty sound
of barking dogs
in yards and life
in my town
as I see it–
I make pictures
alone
alone
alone
all day long
on these pages;
fill them up
and turn them in
to Pablo
sometimes he likes them
enough for a book
but most often
he just posts them
on my blog
And I don’t know
who ever reads that
but occasionally
I get comments…
I wish I was
a better poet
and then, possibly
a few more would notice
But even then
I’d never make
big news.