Transition – A Poem



Lost in a meaning
to a park bench
a man borrowing space
A pond reflecting leaves
goldening along the shore.

His mind coiled
birds talons scratch into
the silver branches

ten years
prior movie theater newsreels
of World War 3 4
(numerologists parsing the sums
publicly airing
their differences)
Bring the Boys Home Uncle!
Bring the Boys
and Girls

Late night
a quiet one
no longer anything to say or too much
A walk over snow-covered
hand in hand to a bright café
a table
spliced memories captured
in a photographical jumble

Fire in the basement
crimson indigo dance
the house creeks and wakens
and the cold dissipates
briefly retreating
to the attic
Man asks for a light
in the dark
and locks the door

“Someone at the office told me then news,”
he says
“Can’t be too careful.
are everywhere these days.”

Time passes with grilled cheese
green beans
and vodka
unnoticed announcements invitations

a bench
a pond
leaves and birds
his furrowed face captivated in
the evolution of
ages begetting meaninglessness.

An Orange Coat – A Poem


An Orange Coat

Orange coat in the morning
pockets of air.
Trouble smothered in a letter
opened on
misunderstanding references.

We reveled as
was contaminated
peaceful monotony

In a darkened room you laid
covers draped
over your head
feet propped by pillows
seams of

My right leg callowed
between your
In the closet
an orange
hung the lusts
of our youth.

Our laughter
fragilely collided against
Pierced by nails
into the floorboards
our blood
mingled and seeped.

We partitioned our hours
to cling onto

Glaring your eyes
held me.
Images swept up
from the letter
the railing and
broke discourse.

The belt
of an orange coat
your waist.
bloomed effortlessly
under a sun
by the clouds.

The Age of Reason – A Poem


The Age of Reason

It is seven and I am eating a meal
of fish
(salmon for those who
are curious)
and rice
(white with a touch
of soy sauce
so as to not appear
for breakfast
with my son next to me
at the table
eating a big bowl of sugary

My morning cup of coffee is too bitter.

There is an unpeeled
beside his bowl.

“Make sure you eat your banana too,” I say.

He nods.
He tells me his favorite breakfast is

“That’s a good one.”

“Mom makes the best.”

“She does make
one hell
of a pancake.”

I feel a certain liberty
to cuss
select words
in his presence
as he has just turned ten.

The age of reason.

A time when his inventive imaginings
begin to fade.

“Are you going to work today?”

“Nope. You going to school?”

“Yeah.” He drains the milk
from the bottom of
his bowl
and takes the dishes to the sink.

“Come on Bryan. We’re running late,” his
mom calls out.

I go and grab his backpack
and handing it to him
he slings it over his shoulders.
I walk him to the door.
Opening it I ask

“You want to watch a movie
when you get home
or play a game? Or something?”

“I dunno.”


He walks out and I say bye.
My wife hurries past
a professionally dressed blur
whizzing through
the door

“Have a nice day”

as she reaches the car.
A red Honda
that will take
three and a half more years to pay off.
Give or take a few months.

I watch them as they back out
and drive
down the street
into the busy-ness of school and career
and I go inside
to start cleaning up the morning dishes.

The banana is on the counter.
Peeled but forgotten
in the mad dash
out the door.
I pick it up, break off a piece
and chew it
while looking out the backyard
where a dozen
skitter along the grass

about the bitter coffee.
Better reduce
the number of scoops

Jacob’s Ladder – A Poem


Jacob’s Ladder

You see, I am the grandson of Jacob’s
second cousin,
and whatever else that may mean,
it affords me certain
visionary privileges.
So when I was on my way
to the ladder
his niece now maintains
out of a sense of
traditional sentimentality,
I sliced my foot on a shard
of your heart
that lay in frozen splinters
over the ground.

We memorized the steps down to
the banks of the river,
where the ring was tossed
into the streaming
of the gathering clouds.
I memorized the feel of your ribs
through the thin fabric
of your t-shirt
as you slept.

I see an open umbrella
on a hot day,
still white foam conjured in
swirling waters where
two currents meet,
magpies and a woodpecker
in the canopy.

You beg me
for a match
and lighting your smoke ask
if I ever
felt the need
to scream.

Sometimes I answer.

What makes you need to scream?

Thoughts about the grave.

I like to scream in the rain.
Once I screamed
on the sidewalk
outside of a Barnes and Nobel
for so long
that my voice become hoarse
and they called the police.
I was arrested
for creating
a public disturbance.
I spent the night in jail
with a lady
named Judy.
Jailbird Judy.
She was a heroin addict.

There is a gentleness in the way
you strummed
the ripples of my heart
that reverberates
in me
like notes played
by a solo flute
in an empty hall.

I know in the morning you
are gone.
The cold north wind has been stirred
blowing across the river
shifting the currents,
and crows have come
to pick at the bones I left.

So that here at the last leg of my journey
I wait
with a bandaged foot
for the Sun Driver
to take me up to the top of the mesa
where Jacob’s niece lives.
I never told you of her, did I?
She is old
and living in a mansion
that smells
of Euphrates Lavender,
but still keeps the ladder in
impeccable condition.

For what good it does
she told me once.
Heaven collapsed years ago
due to outside forces
and being internally
to adapt to changing global
market conditions.
All the angles now
live off of the trust fund
they inherited.

She is a solitary creature
by nature
but always has room
to accommodate me.
In her residence I will be able
to ascend the ladder,
to bend my vision
to see beyond the gates, the fiery
chariots and
the crashing walls,
the descending doves,
past military and economic
institutions and
through those splendorous media
productions and
about serialized consumption.
Visions so distant as
to pull me away,
far from the world,
and far
from my memories of

A Bus Ride with Grasshopper Eyes – A Poem


A Bus Ride with Grasshopper Eyes

He turns around
in his seat
to glare at me
with grasshopper eyes
shining in a translucent ooze
under a steel-gray forehead
and I
want to fly
out of my skin.

But I look out the window
where the air is foamy
and volatile.
A cat
nauseating Latin
libertine conceptions
of modern
art forms
while sitting atop a brick wall
by a garden
of impatiens.

My mind drifts
as I remember the dream
I had
the previous night
where my wife
was kneeling on our bed
among the
long blades
of grass
seeded and pregnant.
She was in a button
down dress
with those damn buttons
only half-way
so that her bra
peeked out like
a tempting blue fire
and I was kissing
her neck
as my hand traveling down the small
of her back
searching for
begging to be explored.
Yet she rebuked
my advances
pushing me away

“We’ve been over that.”

Waking up I grabbed hold of
her hand
and watched
the darkness gather
as it
from her mouth in
web-like shadows
clouding her lips to
flood the room
with each exhale
of breath
she took.

I wonder now
when it was
that I could still
from reality.

The sun is hot
on my face
even through the tinted glass
and the air conditioning
I see
a mailbox post without a

Shops pass by
polluted ecstasy.
International fantasy
that’s produced
and marketed
by corporations seeking
with the devil.

The rain starts when
I get up to leave.
It isn’t my stop
but I need
I pass
Grasshopper Eyes
who has turned his attention back
to his pornographic
cell phone
judging me
an illegitimate

Heaven shows
its apparent displeasure
at my exit
by letting loose
a summer
as I step off.

But waiting outside
in the downpour
Hope is wearing
spongy shoes.
She is smiling
satisfied to be able
to walk
on water.
is plastered
on the side of
a church
and doesn’t seem to be
at her current
state of affairs.

Accordion Dance – A Poem


Accordion Dance

Greeting Saturn
with a bandaged smile
your composition
on the outrages
of an orange flavored love
his simple
in politically charged matters
and I was breathlessly watching
performing an accordion
recalling its complicated steps
Mars had taught me
changed houses.

Don’t be Afraid – A Poem


Don’t be Afraid

We ran for cover. Our images on the wall moving
sure footed over the debris and smelling of
backyard barbeques at four in the afternoon.

You were beautifully obnoxious. Laughing
at my wild hair filled with dust your face turned
serpentine as you urged me to go back saying

“Don’t be afraid”

and knowing that fear was all I had. I held onto
your hands and noticed how lifelike they were.
We knelt facing each other buried in terror.

Faces passed us, chalked blue and staggering. There
was a bottle of water in the room we passed through.
You saw it bending clear pure waves of light along

the floor. Not seeing it, I wanted to know how
much. I dug into my pockets for security; reassured
by feeling the smooth surface of the magnifying

glass we found. Your lips were parched and
cracked and bleeding as you forced a smile. Your
pale tongue scratched the roof of your mouth.

“Enough for today. Enough.”

The sun shifting through the haze rising from the
ground powdered the landscape in a red hue. The cold,
heavy smell of lead and sulfur made me shiver.

The screams quieted. Soft echoes reached out to us.
Explosions, distant and receding, that scrambled blind
through the air. Your voice sank as your eyes closed

“Don’t be afraid.”

Counting Days – A Poem


Counting Days

Gravity is holding clandestine
My shed is my shelter.
The shelves are lined with books
and the workbench
by the sketches of a woman I met in March.

Let’s hold out together.
Storms have a way of passing unnoticed
I don’t have any power
in the shelter shed,
but in the fridge there is some wine.

Rocky ledges are not the most
appropriate place
to build a laboratory.
I think Frankenstein would agree.
Or his daughter
who was always the bright one.

I am working on a coffee table
and carving in reliefs
of The Last Supper.
God would probably not
think it is
an accurate portrayal,
but he was there,
And I
can only guess.

In the second story of my house
I proposed
to my editor
that it should be an original account
of an architect who
slept through New Year’s Eve
and woke to find
he was an art thief.
Don’t you think it
a wonderful premise?
But the publishing house
wanted a sequel
to Counting Days.

Grasshoppers make bad neighbors.
Running through life is better than sugar.

Behave in appropriate fashion
and still
an off the cuff remark
will sting like hell.

And so
it all drags us down and brings us
back to gravity.
It is only fitting that it should,
here in the shed
with the power drill,
the pencils,
and the empty bike rack
as solemn witnesses to our eternal
black hole love.
The rest has been left
to those grey
of green fields who
window shop in the summer
and feel the snow