There it was unmade–
the bed, the morning
the decade–come undone
like all the Friday garbage trucks
thundering through alleys
and backstreets, with impunity
and all they pick up
in our ritualistic bins;
The sky lit like
a millennial carnival
or a parade to the Gods
we’ve made–and it
was only just dawn–
Quiet as this town gets
then–in instants–a cacophony
of mothers, men on the make
with their dogs
and rampant pizza delivery
But we’d made it
through the week
while explosions continued
like strands of ugly beads
in the conquered countries
calling into question
whether anyone would inherit
the earth–the vanquished
the attackers or the weak
at this tenuous point
in History.

What died
to make this world;
the useless designs
the births, the paperwork–
dead words in old letters
kept, from weakness
and sentimentality–
the inability to truly part;
the refusal to throw
useless things out…
Fear, confusion, uncertainty–
the trees that perished
unwillingly–to make
the wood for this floor
polished by dull feet
pacing away the days
in a chain of purpose
yet to be determined…
What died to give
life back its freshness?
Rocks on the floor
arranged in mock monuments
with old leaves (still red)
and flowers overlain (the ones
you shouldn’t have picked)
the leaves that go
largely unnoticed
except by the mawkish
romantic collector
who feigns interest
to hide boredom–
or worse; indifference.

Blue light
spills off the pier–
traffic backs up
like an arrival
at Mecca
dusk won’t stop;
turns to strands
of rubies & emeralds
while shadows
on the overpass
make haste
for the elephants
and exotic tents;
a circus, a dance
a horse event
all in one; Pegasus
meets Aphrodite
and P.T. Barnum…
Summer–and the crowd
is, itself, the animal–
neither tame nor wild
but with a mind
and feral bent
all its own–unleashed
by summer.

Look at those
beautiful birds
about to take flight
on the back
of that truck–
designed randomly
in dust, flying
for moments
everytime they stop
and fling open the door
to unload cargo
or put in boxes–
the dust birds
with wings, beeks
and claws you
can only imagine—
and hopefully
they’ll migrate
before they’re
all washed off.

The smokers
are killing themselves
puffing away madly
in the alley
and flicking butts
like little missles
as if it’s the end
of the world…
Flower pots are not immune
from their attack
nor are tidy hedges
& lawns–tossing around
these vulgar
exclamation marks
and lighting another–
But, after all, it’s
their lungs and somebody’s
making a ton of money
off their expensive purchases
and the state makes
plenty of tax…and
I can’t get too mad
because I have to admit
I used to be one.

Maybe they will whisper
when morning comes
to you about the truth
of the matter…
But for now, night surrounds
like a fortress
its black moat
an unfordable barrier
you can neither swim
or walk across–
There is no jumping
at this late moment;
You forgot how in youth
taking few risks
shorter steps with age
looking around in smaller circles
And so…there you are;
not surprised to be a prisoner
of the small hours
when a bird’s call is an oddment
footsteps on the walk, a dirge
or even nonexistant
and the telltale fall of leaf
with a crinkling crashing sound
about as much
as you can take
without walking out
to the dark, sightless museum
of night–to save it from itself
in a box or a pocket
or on display as a relative
that bears little resemblance
to you, at all.

A middle aged lady
rearranges her shadow
against a village wall
the day grows long
A far ridge line resembles
that of another planet
but no one sees it that way;
Kids ride skateboards
in the CVS parking lot
the sound is heinous–
abrasive, grating
a slaughter of serenity
And just like that
from broken yolk orange
to Sartre’s crepuscular grey
July 14 is gone–and the giddy
elated coffee people gather–
oblivious to the dark
in the ersatz light
of the corner Starbucks.

It works
just as well
as you’d expect
a body to perform
on a given fair day
at a moment’s notice
or in the middle
of a storm, with rain
wind & snow–
limbs, circulation and
instantaneous thought;
instinct and insight
gumption and willpower–
perfectly good, its
built in, get up and go
at five decades strong
(in this case)
in spite of all else;
dependable, solid–
largely unfaltering
made to order
with every working part intact
like the day you were born…
It works just as well
as you’d expect;
most often, on command
without undue prompting
like an unquestioning ally
or an old friend–loyal
and dependable
in every time of need
rarely, if ever, turning down
a reasonable request
to action–
or any command
you might give it
to perform, to put out
or to pick up the pace
along the way.

The July world
in its state
of woundedness;
even these palm trees
list and lean
every direction
along the avenues
having taken hits
in a desperate wind…
Along Venice Blvd
a man in oily rags
digs through a garbage bin
another, a block later
with an imploring sign
that reads–”Thanks in advance
for any help you can give…”
Help for the coast–lost
in its mist…help for the streets
torn up, as if bombs have hit;
Help for the police
who need to make their arrests
and help for an afternoon thief
who wishes the window
he jimmied open
was just a little wider
so he could
more easily
climb in.

The poise of love
The love of the moment
the moment of “maybe”
the “maybe” for which
you’ve been waiting–
Waiting so long
Long as one can remember;
Remember when it
wasn’t so hard?
As hard as you’re
willing to work–
The work that Life demands
The demands that never let up–
Up where lovers soar
Flying in the poise
of Love.