A Notebook – Since 2007
The stars will blow out they say
tho none have seen one up close
or this far away for that matter.
And for now the center still holds
the “deep heart’s core” burns on
of course tempered with age.
The tool worn and bent its handle
once forged so hot to the touch
now almost cold the closer you come.
The further astray and adrift
solo in space in your egg shaped
spiral lost in your milky way.
Why nine chains to the moon?
Because things arranged in threes
allow a mysterious symmetry.
He stood beneath a bank of trees
near the beach of a green spring
the wily busker taking deposits
of fruit in his cowpoke hat basket
a few choice purple cherries
a couple of greenbacks
and a nugget of fool’s gold.
He sang of broken hearts
paper torn into many pieces
litter along the roadway
how love collects like dust
up against the bent guardrails
that’s my heart in pennies
he sang out on the highway.
He worries the strings of his guitar
with his bent wire fingers
flap slaps the hook smacks the box
shapes his fretful music
the earth wants a cover
creeping vines and grasses
if any have many piled carpets.
Yes, lend an ear or
if you can’t hear
a hand everyone
needs help some
day sooner or later.
A great funnel follows
this big bang spiral
the universe a canal
of turns and twists
through a milky orifice.
The birds play the leads
the melodies while the trees
rhythm leaves in the wind
as I wile away the evening
dressed in hearing aids.
More than sound is here
to hear is to feel motion
an eyelid angel’s kiss
across the baby’s lanugo
can you hear this?
For days on end we go without
disavow our yielding yellows
surrender calls our voices
You knew what was coming
The abyss, an abyss anyway
I often want to share mine
with you but then I forget
your name your hands
Every morning now I finish
flex the memory stretch
credulity as they say no
more evidence than an empty
basement the attic too
the whole house spotless
not a speckle or a flake
of what used to take place
the romp stomp jerkings
the peaceful long sleeps
no need to hark but now
lend an ear or a hand.
I come from the east unto the west
you from the west unto the east
any day now, any day now
maybe we’ll meet.
West light floods the east woods
in the evening when the birds sing
released from their rampant pens
to frolic in the air like photons.
Elementary, my dear Watson,
east is west and west is east
when the perigee syzygy
pink flower supermoon casts
its widespread net over all
the people listening at once
searching the sky for a message
from the west unto the east.
I was waiting for Epiphany
when a crow painted me
silver and black
like a wet Cadillac
The paint a moist paste
white and yellow and blue
with what hue did she
pass her message to me
The next time I saw Epiphany
she preferred not to know me
but I knew the crow in her
parting designed my destiny.
Retired from structured work
where one comes in time
to a sense of worthiness
awake but dewy-eyed
we often rode together but
arrived to chalk and cheese
shifts you taught me
to go easy to go around
and the rain fell down
petrichor filled the hooptie
and I long now for those days
when we used to commute.
Loveliest of evenings long passed
close kissed in dark dwelling alley
irate tenants hissing us go away
and we felt the marine layer coming.
Felt with our youthful tongues day
and night passing slowly into the mix
of salt and hair and wet sandpaper
rubbing away our persistent presents.
And while yesterday we had sun
today we have none though they say
the globe is warming you wear your
flannel nightgown winter and summer.
with spring’s sprang nearly sprung
green cheer spread here and there
winter’s rust vanquished vanished
birds appeared and cats chirped
bees abuzz and poets well coffeed
at sidewalk bistro tables smiling
flowered girls no more sobbing,
words like dandelion seeds fill
vacant lots of napkins and notebooks
from self sown gardens of the mind –
happens every year most this clime
a great force in and out the ages goes.
On the radio
in the car
road noise
mix of blur
a shout
in the street
turn it up
turn it down
turn it off.
Try to wait
what’s up?
what’s down?
what’s goin’ round?
in the groove
groovy.
Caught inside
rough ride
in the tube
let it play
on the radio.
Live at 5
Small Wave Riders
on the radio
in the curl
watch that fin
at the drive-in
on the inside
looking out
of the radio.
Cherry blossom suds fizzle
across the street in the past
tense as the maple samaras
loosen their grab and let go
tiny purple red flowers –
Susan sweeps & I hold the shovel.
The scents immense
a pentatonic hair gel sneeze
like a rim shot on a snare
then the squiggly rinse
of liquorice bush fills
the air as at the summer fair.
But what is still future tense
figgily (like a fig fallen ripe)
on a fawn lawn afternoon
for now needs no articles
not a the or a a stammer
waves of breezy sizzle.
The Coming of the Toads 