We could be
at the high
azure lake–living
by the fine sand
of time &
the pines in
an alpine dream
where butterflies glide
as if on unseen hands…
But we are here
in the labyrinth instead;
the city grid
of alleys, streets
and quadrants;
a cement kingdom
as we serve out
our freedom sentence
while crows, like a jury
look on, picking
up the pieces–and dogs
walk…sometimes off
their leashes, but we
carry our chains
around our necks
like jewelry of the found;
we, who are lost
in cities, remembering
lakes.

The seagreen ocean
embracing noon coves–
not a clue as to where
Atlantis went
or what she meant
when she said “I only
collect new $2 bills…
and bright red leaves
here in my black book…”
Nor the layered grey
hiding the truth
of another Friday;
the imminent rain
behind its gauzy veil–
no planes in their
cryptic, descending order
over LAX–delivering pilgrims
to the left coast
in their search
and flags snapping hard
at Topanga
in a singular wind
making the displaced
palms bend like
lost dancers or stick figures
with big hair
in some mysterious exodus…
Looking back, the $2
was more than a tip
because giving her that bill
was worth the price
of admission.

Row yourself across
the storm tossed waters
with lightness and purpose
on a carefully crafted vessel
built for long voyages
and endurance…
On the far shore
traverse the boulevards
and avenues amidst
strife and skirmishes
whether in battle
or in altruism–in sturdy shoes
stitched meticulously
from the finest hide…
Move across the earth
with gratitude and purpose
in this era of strife
and uncertainty–the sky
understands; the moon
quietly sees and agrees
and the stars look on
like relatives from a
benevolent distance
as witnesses, knowing
that the strong survive
and the fortunate
live long lives.

It’s hard to discern
the state of the world
shy of 8am;
across the village square
the blue and green
gardening trucks
with all their gear
are pulling up, catty corner
at the mini mart
for coffee and donuts–
the busses roaring by
with dazed and hurried workers;
all the shiny crows assembled
near the town bench–
looking for their first opportunities–
people in line
making long faces
at the Coffee Bean
seeking love, solace
& stimulation…
It’s the state of the world
as far as I can see it
and that’s not very far
from this shaky seat
behind the coffee machine
with a veil of steam
obscuring my
ever-changing vigil.

A pale arm
across the sky;
smoke plumes
on the horizon
from unlit fires…
a blue–beyond definition
which inspires words
that don’t yet exist;
It is time
to look at the rocks
on the high ridges
and imagine kingdoms
verging on utopia
and true freedom–
It is time
to behold
the roiling creek
and see eternal waters;
walking the fine line
between nothing lost
and one perfect moment–
it’s easy if impossible;
reach out then
reach out again
and don’t
die yet.

Pale octegenarians
munching carrot sticks;
the world will
never change–
I cannot pretend
I’m paying attention
when it’s much worse
than that–hypervigilant
obsessive–fixated
on oddments and
the obscure–
a stanza between courses
what would Lorca think?
The poeta a Nueva Yorka
or Che Guevara, who
took care of business
with a knife
and a pistol
Now it’s celery
they’re downing
in rabbit nibbles
making a crunching sound like
a small waterfall might
pouring over all
the rest of my
broken, unfinished
images.

At some point
a red painting
of a green bird
fell off the wall
but I was not there
to see it–asleep
in another room, maybe–
or out for a long walk
to the bluffs
where the moon
seemed to rise
as if prematurely;
yellow & old…
And the painting
of my brother’s dead bird
lay in stubborn grey dust
like leaves must
as they fall and fall
continuously in the night
like forlorn, lost birds
there in the corridor
where no one
sees them
either.

Watching the moon
from far away;
you can’t get any closer
except with machinery–
a crane, a spaceship
or in a dream
like dead leaves
in the corridor–
they are on their way…
I pick one up
in admiration and it cracks
to pieces in my greedy hand–
the moon would laugh
if it could–being watched
by the lonely, the desperate
the legions of
idealistic fools
like me–wishing it
was closer
or made sense
or was a lover
with a puzzling white face
who might finally
come home, or that
those leaves–once
vibrant red and soothing green
would never die, turn brown
and blow away.

That is my pain–
initials spelled out
in the dust
at the edge
of the bed
that are only
imagined—there;
I see them again–
like a voice in
the short hall
that is not real either
but sounds like
the morning arriving
with the sting
of a too-deeply-bitten
fingernail–I will complain
even cry…
but no one’s listening–
neither will teachers
cotton to self pity
and the small dog
whimpering next door
for the drunken mother
who forgot her.
That dust I mentioned
in the shape of a name
has no place here
but I’ve found
years later–it’s impossible
to wash away.

It started out
with sandpaper–
all I could find
for a painting;
an appropriate scrap…
but the graininess
ground down
my pencil lead
after the first outline
and I was left
with nothing
except emptiness
and raw intention–
it’s like that sometimes
as an artist
of your smile–
trying to capture
what cannot be held
painted or contained
and still, there’s
d e s i r e
like paint itself
lying untouched in all
its pure upspoilt color
and virginal beauty;
something, in the end
you’ll never be.