Even More

I used to cruise
the street you lived
on in a Hertz rental
car, delivering the

news of my love
to your doorstep.
Then I got a
life and punctured

my swollen notion
of who you were.
A lot has happened
since then.  Even

more, I suspect, is
scheduled to happen.

Practice

My practice of
selling windows in
civilian life enables
me to sleep through

anything, even earthquakes
up to a Richter-scale
reading of five
point two.  I let

the chips in my
dream fall where
they may.  Then I
carefully gather them

into neat stacks of
red, white, and blue.

Glossy

The skin of a
wild one who
throws her phone
number at me

becomes fluent
in six languages
when touched.
She dances in

private through
my wildest dreams
about her, then turns
into a goal I once

had of always
being about to begin.

My Father

When my father
died, I inherited
his worst memories
of the good old

days.  I remember
him whenever
rain interrupts
what I had

been thinking.
His hopes cling
to mine as
if trying to

avoid death
by drowning.

Aristotle

The mid-point between
in-between and among,
when met halfway,
pleases Aristotle

one mild morning
as he sips a
warm breakfast
beverage.  He

swallows half
an egg whole.
He gets up
from the table,

prepared to die
if Socrates did.

Corner

I was so sorry
to see you leave
I wished I could
throw my hand

after you to wave
goodbye again.
But you had
already bent

out of view
around the corner
we managed to
turn into a

nightmare we
couldn't wake up from.

You

As I wait for
something to happen,
an imaginary trot
to nowhere gallops

through my thoughts.
I stir my imagination
without moving
an inch.  The time

tries harder to
become later than
it was, but can't.
It's as stuck on

now as I am stuck
on you.

The Circumstances

Because I always
seem to be driving
past the one I
love in a parked

car, let me stay
a while and repeat
again things I
can't possibly

mean.  Time is
the time it is,
always and forever.
The circumstances

stand around,
congratulating themselves.

Courting

Whose pelvic zone
held midnight hostage
filled the hole
in my head

with bated breath.
(A chick returning
to its shell
compensates for

any loss in lust.)
I am as nervous
as a black cat
waiting for its

chance to bring
you bad luck.

A Child

A child thrown
from the moving
vehicle of its
mother's death

survives by bouncing
creatively along the
pavement.  It is
now four years

old and able
to laugh when
tickled, to cry
when locked

out of the house
at night.

Humid

I invited a humid
woodpecker from
another poet's poem
to perch on a stanza

in my poem and peck
on any wood he might
happen to find there.
There was, of course,

no wood in my poem.
Nor was the woodpecker
actually humid.  The
poet I told you about had

attached that adjective to him
to make him more interesting.

An Elegy For Ayn

A hawk, perched
on its ledge of
air, prepares to
swoop down and

dismantle another
sparrow for the
good of mankind.
Ayn Rand tries

again to understand
why she's dead.
The dirt clod
in her mouth

tries in vain
to explain.

Gilded Age

Bred white, raised
on white bread,
they nose into
the white pillow

that wastes the
world.  The chance
peace was given
was brief.  A

thief in sheep's
clothing is just another
dyed-in-the-wool
billionaire who

doesn't know how
not to want more.

Willy-Nilly

Wading through wet snow,
an audible squishiness
beneath my feet, I
contemplate the

willy-nilly nature
of things, while refusing
to think thinking is the
cause of my existence.

I turn my attention
to a window behind
which nothing will
happen (the man who

lives there doesn't
know he exists).

Message

In those days
(I explained to
the grandkids),
if you wanted to

get a message
to someone, you
wrote it down
on a "oiece of

paper", put it in
an "envelope"
and "mailed"
it to the person

you wanted to
get the message to.

Mars

Farewell, my lovelies.
Moonlight has not
made me its hero
in many moons.

My favorite forest,
having caught fire,
is charred and ugly.
Photos of the

Mars-scape float
down from space,
filling my screen
with desert places

and (so far)
no human races.

Saint Augustine

On days when you
feel shot from a
cannon, it's best
to avoid riding

on buses that
require exact
change.  Saint
Augustine knew

better than to
start believing
too soon.  He timed
his life perfectly,

leaving the study
of silence for last.

A Man

A man bends
his wife around
an idea he has
of what a

wife should be
(Edson).  It
doesn't work.
His wife hides

herself in
who she was
before she
met him and

escapes through
a hole in the ceiling.

After All

The train carries
him past houses
he'd like to live
in, to ask questions

in over dinner,
grow old and
older in until
there is no old

left to grow.
Then the tunnel
with its tightly
shut eyes.  A

house to be carried
out of after all.

Dream-Lit

What if everything
that's impossible
has already happened
somewhere else?

A lab in which
beauty can be
created in a test
tube is located

somewhere in the
middle of nowhere.
The virginity of
indecision sits on

the fence, leaning
this way and that.

In These Here Parts

It may well be
that an angel
fans the furnace
face of IS with

wings, but we've
never seen it.
Or even heard
tell of it.  In

these here parts
we whack the ass
of IS with sticks
until he douses

the crops
with rain.

Original
(Donne)

My ship cruises
through the night,
its flags ablaze
to tempt your gaze.

Your presence
allows darkness
to drag midnight
to within sight.

We haul our
collected self
off to bed and,
screwing it into

original sin,
invite infinity in.

Moonlit

Moonlight, which
becomes you when
you're moonlit and
is currently being

augmented by a
formation of flickering
fireflies, marches
across the night

as if thoroughly
convinced of the
distance between
now and then.  Your

rearrival in the morning
makes my timepiece tick.

Happy

A poet is trying
to show us
how clever he's
convinced he is

by choosing words
at random and
gluing them to
the page.  We

pretend to appreciate
what he's doing,
then burn what
he's done while

he sleeps in
his happy dream.

Details

They say the
operation was
successful, that
I will now live

as close to forever
as it's possible to
live under the
terms of the new

contract.  The few
minor details that
still have to be
worked out all

begin with a 'd':
darkness, decay, dreams.

Words

The last thing we
need is more
poets chasing the
paparazzi around

town on motor scooters.
Let's continue waiting
instead for the end
of whatever this

turns out to have
been.  If a poet
can point something
out, that's different.

There aren't enough
words to go around.