It’s like this–
smoke that resembles hope
in bars we shouldn’t
have visited
shapes we neglected
in streets; the vague forms
in river fog
that were actually our selves
coming around stone corners
being overly nice to foreigners
because you hate yourself
or disbelieve your country…
The fruit market in Nice
where you bought baskets full
then gave it away gratuitously
down at the docks
to strangers–lying
about how much money
your dad makes and inventing
an illustrious family past;
that’s what it’s like–
and then not even remembering
if the reinterpretation is real.

Who were we
to think Paris
would be any different that year?
The dark bridges
over darker rivers
chauffered cars, not taxis
to take us from the airport–
expensive art in dim museums
with solemn guards
behind red ropes
who never smiled when I said
“Bonjour!”…maybe they smelled
the wine and cigarettes
and the attitude of being
infallibly American: “without us
they would have lost the war…”
Staying at the Plaza Athenee
on Ave Montaigne–the coveted rooms
with a view of La Tour Eiffel
Champagne and pots de creme
around the clock
paying the room service people
too much for a
better made bed
Five course dinners
with matching wines
at the garrishly mirrored
Lucas Carton and never
feeling overfed…
All of this for what?
Bona fide addiction
a broken marriage
lies, deception, a squandered decade
and this poem.

A poem
is everything
the world is not;
Kind, short, accepting
and almost always
on one page–
In a poem
I might tell you
I heard a bird
sing a song in words
the other day
and you could believe me
While, in the world at large
such a claim
would cause me
to be laughed at
severely doubted
and considered
a nut.

Let the hour bloom;
you cannot hold it down
with thoughts and regrets
like “why did they put
that fence there?” And
“How annoying–these jet planes
plying the coast like
they own the place…”
Time is not as open
to rejection and fear
as it is to acceptance
and making the best
of the way the world is;
There’s litter there to pick up
and not to reprimand
the offender–go ahead
and wear a hat
if there’s too much sun–
and maybe you can take
one of those planes
to a new destination.

This is terrible–
I can’t remember
why I set out
to write this poem…
Another dust mote
on the floor
with its image
of something else;
music that suggested love
but came up empty
the song was over
the lead too shakey
at pencil’s end;
I must be careful
with each letter now
And what was that
you said?

You looked drunk
on life, there
by the waters
of an uncertain ocean;
red robe draped lazily
around you like
a love flag
the sea in its
own somber aquamarine
lapping at your ankles
and feet
as if knowing
it was insignificant
to you; a manservant
a mere worshipper
and that it
could never matter
to you–wading
in its shallows
not far from the shore
still figuring out
how to drown
without really
dying.

The street
hasn’t found
its magic yet;
only squirrels and crows
in early evidence–
cars with pale shadows
in them
making their way
to assignations;
April grey to keeing May;
a smile of certainty
on the knowing
in patient wait for June
depending on the sun
which they know will come
But there is always doubt
about gravity and the universe–
why we’re here
where we’re going;
just how far we’ve come…
The birds continue
their diligent search
for nurture
and the squirrels keep
an eye on each other
vigilant–made of awareness
This little part
of evolution
like a silent film
with its odd actors.

It was
an old house
lying on its side
in the dirt
with one feather
in the yard;
a long and slender feather
perfectly white and brown
nothing disturbing
about this landscape
except the bird
that lost its appendage
and save for
the family
that no longer lived there
at the end of the street
where waves break
with a clean, snapping sound
and their dashes of blue
and green across
half the horizon…
what did it mean
that the trails
were raked perfectly
and that fat, uneaten lemons
grew copiously
on all the trees?
Nothing but the acorns
with their mysterious
cross-shaped tops
would tell–and even then
you would have
to look hard for any
lasting meaning.

When Chiara
came over
she made me
a sketch
with hearts and rainbows
and left a small
#2 dark pencil
on my desk;
it writes like a charm;
designs and outlines
shapes and forms–
effortlessly across
the page, like this–
I don’t know
where Chiara got
this pencil
But it’s one
of the rewards
of knowing her, that–
and the mystery
as to its
origins.

You threatened
to end it all
on an unpolished wood floor
in a dark hallway
in some halfway house–
at least, that’s what
the message said
before I erased it
and stared back into the night
with its own alienated moon
hanging forlornly
in nearly naked branches–
naked as we had been
weeks before these incidents
telling lies
covered with beach sand
the small dog
looking on ridiculously
like a canine third wheel
to this human carnival
of lust and neediness…
I will not answer your call
you burned your bridge
like that moon is alone
with no visible support
even gravity in doubt
with everything left to fall
on its own, much like
the ill formed, sharp
and sap encrusted
pine cones I sometimes find
and leave in the corridor
walking in, or out.