Old poetry books:
I’m literally afraid
to throw them out
for fear of insulting someone
or something written
I might have missed;
denigrating an image
by disposing of it–
misunderstanding or disrespecting
an analogy or landscape
even though
The stars don’t care
And the ocean is insensitive
And no–her eyes aren’t remotely
Like half moons, per se…
So there they sit
In their little immortalities
all those books of verse
that look at me and say
“You’ll never fully get
what we’re about…”

There are edges and margins
where the unspoken
is written; all that
can never be said
what remains misunderstood–
I didn’t say it
but you still
heard it wrong;
a color more grey
than beige or mauve
the ocean which conceals
all that’s thrown in
until it’s returned
worn and misshapen
in unrecognizeable forms
a phantom comment
from a stranger
in a corridor
that turns out
to be true…
I wish the flags
wouldn’t wave so happily today
but they snap hard
in the prevailing wind anyway
I laugh but no one notices;
I cry and a few witnesses applaud–
doing time, awaiting the day
when everything will be
revealed to be as
it should.

Pretty stones
on the hill
in morning sun
will diminish some
with advancing day
turn plain, fit in
to the dirt, unnoticed;
their moment of
intensity surrendered–
when the veins of micah
and regal white granite
turn in their color
transient… then
to be walked upon
by hikers–picked up
and tossed at targets
by kids on the path
impetuously human
or simply roamed
as the labyrinths
or snakes, lizards
and rodents
which have no clue
as to the stones’
inherent value–
But in their moments
just after dawn, we do
when, from the corner
of an eye, one might see
the random, precious flickering
of a lost kingdom
a quickened sparkle
for an instant before
it is gone.

It make no sense–
the pelicans shot
from the sun
in a warlike squadron;
hit the water with
an animal vengeance
while we came up
nearly empty
on the sand, content
with smooth pebbles
and cobblestones;
our pockets full
of worthless trinkets:
collecting, collecting
as if that ritual
could fill the emptiness.
Just to the left
and over the dunes
the menacing missile silos
of Vandenburg readied
for WWIII while signs
warned us of the nesting range
of the almost extinct
Snowy Plover–
it made no sense
in a day
where we could
and could not go.

Girl in the alley
standing against the shadows
you were my friend once
but I never knew you–
Do we ever know
anyone, truthfully?
The dogs (which I always
write about) look on
in amazement at this
human fealty–the need
for love and to be loved
reciprocity.
In a black night
as tonight, it looks like
the moon spat out the stars;
a certain disgust
at this endless earthly appetite
I know mine is excessive,
foolish–tends
towards gluttony
but what animal
won’t try its hardest
to eat all the food
it’s offered?
So I can’t blame you
for taking, taking
and then coming back
for the rest…the alley
in which you stand
old friend, that bitter margin
had better watch out
or you’ll steal
its darkness, too.

You were grey
at the stair
when I last saw you;
gripping the rail
stumbling, uncertain
muttering something
about “leaving the door open”
A gutteral tone; remonstrative
and drunk again.
You love
to boss him around
that man in the soiled T shirt–
who takes care of you;
a puppy dog
to your imperiousness
Where did your true
self confidence go?
And did you hear
the news? Bruce died
of a heart attack
last night…I guess
God takes first
the ones he loves
the most.

Ferret eyes
in the dark
of my thinking;
you at the table
beady-eyed, like me
and cutting a muffin
I couldn’t be blamed
for my prurience–
your smirk and wry smile
about the “three second rule”
not staring too long
at the girls; I knew
the intention behind
the chiding, though
I would not
hide my own…
“fields of flowers
baskets of gifts”
The holidays closing in
nothing mattered
to the rising water
nor to the sap
born within
As I sat and watched
and waited for my moment
How perfect.
And to think
you didn’t get along well
with your mother, either.

I began brushing
at the end of the night–
there were three flies
out of nowhere
in the sink
looking as if I’d disturbed
something they were doing…
After a few minutes
of working the brush
back and forth; obsessing
about the yellowness
of my teeth, considering
the angles of my face
in the mirror, and, invariably
getting older–I looked down
and the three flies
were all dead.

“You can read
what she wrote
about our breakup”
My friend, the waiter
from Ado said to me
as he handed over
a blogsite on a receipt–
“Then you’ll know…”
I wanted to ask him
“Know, what, Vincenzo?”
How the pain of love
was different for you
and which one
in the ill-fated union
was first unfaithful or untrue?
And how uniquely exiled
you felt, alone and rejected
put up on a shelf…
But I smiled and said “Yes…
I will go home and check
her account of the split now”
Later, when I unfolded
his note, the website address
was illegible and the closest
I could get to the original
was one with edible
bouquets of flowers.

I am free
there is nothing
death is a lie
there is only life
free from worry
and misery–
the dust at my feet
knows the truth
left to blow and
reconfigure randomly
set to no plan
adhering to no principle
only this breath
a solid heartbeat
and sturdy feet
to walk me to
the nearest door
open it and
go through.