At the green window
peeling paint, needing upkeep
(where the flowers were)
a shadow now–
two pine needles
a cloud moving
slowly west…
along the coast;
I can see those
But no vestige
of last summer
just a passing comment
about the weather
from Jeannie in the hall
“Rain coming later!”
How does she know?

The window, in question
didn’t bring you in–
we couldn’t stop
the hard light, at times
from flooding through
and hurting our eyes;
I tried pulling the blinds
repeatedly, throwing
their odd stripes, sometimes
on you–lying naked
on the floor–the blinds
fell off awkwardly
to one side
during one effort
to shut out the world.

Now, the window, on Saturday
is empty, forlorn
with its random objects
imperfectly framed
and images held
for a few instants
in unclean glass
reminding me, I cannot
linger there, as there is
so much more
work to do.

I don’t know–
was I addicted?
the blue numbers
on the hotel door
suggested prurience
or otherwise…
flew by–A life gone
off the track
in decades when
wastedness was
de rigeur–not just
an anomaly or a sin
but a planned escape
with smoke & particles
to a place where
there was no other side
And now this–
a century launched
with feeble walls &
bridges dissipating
in an evanescent
historic mist–I couldn’t say
what mattered more–
possession or letting go;
left with everything
as if in some game
with players and pretty pieces
but no purpose, except
on some nights. when
you see a half moon
out the window
and the stars appear close–
but these are just
poor excuses for having
learned the language wrong
or, at least–improperly…
And when you dream
about life–remember, they
are only illogical reveries
and not even
real thinking.

I can’t go
five minutes down
without thinking
about the world
and all the trouble
we’re in–the wars
the confusion & disorder–
Five minutes down
among the leaves
and fallen red berries
(some squashed)
out on the deck
to pretend I’m collected
and calm; content
and peaceful
in the warming sun
which makes stripes
of my pen swipes
in shadows on the ground
as I write–capturing
my inability to find
tranquility as I scribble
this missive
standing up.

I fly
out of
these nights
with the subtle
determination
of dawn–fueled
by tea and
hoped-for coffee
at the corner
where they all gather
But before I get there
I stumble on
a shoe lace–
not gravely, but enough
to pause, take care
of business & notice
another red and purple
leaf streaked with yellow–
put that in my pocket
feel uncertain
about almost everything
remark a morning cloud
over the church tower
in its own slow
and determined direction
and resume my mission
up to the corner.

Through winter palms
the ochre church
built by Love, Faith
& film money
where weddings occur;
death and exorcisms too
in darker margins
when doors blow open
unaccounted for
in October Santa Anas
funeral processions
on LA blvds and streets
random as the days
and weeks in which
we are born…
the 10 west and east
runs furiously past this
mostly silent cathedral
where I was married
and a decade later
divorced, under
those same palms.

A sweater
once neatly folded
now crumpled
on the wood floor–
grey clouds
through the trees (where
a drying garment
also hung, last night)
but no downpour;
what storms are predicted
pass unnoticed
and don’t bother worrying
about the lost landscapes–
or the clothes on shelves
once worn, now alone…
Just get up and go
to the drawer
get the old knife
and begin trimming;
add hope, cut
the expectations back
where they belong
and pick up that sweater
fold it neatly, four times
and find it a home
in the closet–
your mother was wrong
about you being
lazy.

I don’t
think of you
much, anymore;
the wind blows
down the corridor–
taking some leaves
across the edge
and leaving others;
sometimes I obsess
about the red ones–
In winter they look
like smiles
or knives or
a remark
you once made
about laziness
which always makes
me pause, to wonder
like I often
consider the leaves.

Majella tells me
with a big smile
she’s so happy
she learned
“the art of real butter…”
when I ask what, exactly
that is–she says, beaming
with hands pumping the air
“Yummmmmy!!….”
Still perplexed, I persist–
“OK–but could you please
be more specific
as to the art?”
“Sure…” and she gets
momentarily serious
with me–”It’s all
in the churning…”

I noticed
a small
perfect lemon
in the street–
but I didn’t see
the tree
from which
it came…
minutes later
by the cliffs
the ocean was
chopped to pieces
by the storm
but the wind
had stilled;
no sign of origins–
the beach disappeared
all the ridges
solid green, from rain
and more rain, then
on the way home
the lemon, smashed
in the street
and still
no tree.

Is there enough?
look out the window–
I see a five dollar bill
on the money green deck
but it’s not real;
and I hate it
when the day
starts out, like this
with questions
And a gravelly voice
of a Seventies singer
describing in low tones
betrayal decades past;
many summers gone
and when I reach out
to fill my pocket
with hope–
that money I imagined
is also gone, but
in the darkness
of the leaf shadows
I find much
much more.