Becoming Invisible

I am becoming invisible.
Cars speed past remorseless.
Passersby pass by
eyes wide open.
The cashier's pierced smile
dissolves into a Big Mac
instead of the chicken nuggets
I thought I'd ordered.
The express line bogs down
my Häagen-Dazs softens.
There is no next for me
no blue light special
no buy-one-get-one.
The man at the bus stop
knows this out of habit
hiding an avalanche of emptiness
in his wooden leg.
From the window seat
I listen to facades
recite the alphabet
mesmerized by their fullness.
A tom waits for a cab,
his heroic ways a subterfuge.
The revolving door has seen to that
and to this moment
as it bumbles along
inconspicuously
laden with partygoers
and quizzical hounds.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Evening Out

1
A quick flick and the naked bulb goes out.
The clock's red LED takes over
but the book resists and stays open
like an all-night diner.
You run your fingertips over the page.
You can take this story anywhere.

2
You are bicycling along a towpath.
A hurdy-gurdy struggles to be heard.
The river overflows
and remains in a holding pattern
capturing a sunset
on its tense surface.

3
Your mother sits on a small canvas folding chair.
She wears pedal pushers, and reads Ladies Home Journal.
Her bicycle leans on its kickstand.
Your father fishes.
He never wears shorts when he fishes.
Teens jump off a steel-decked bridge into the canal.

4
A restaurant quivers with early birds.
Bingo players begin arriving.
Mobiles hang from the washroom's tin ceiling
like bats waiting for handouts.
A well-intentioned sous chef
parses sentences in the corner.

5
You spin past, stopping now and then to read the shrubs.
Your fingers come in handy.
A boy scout troop has canoed a segment of the canal
and is setting up camp for the night.
The troop's leader carries a bag of merit badges
and is eager to share his expertise.

6
A huge oil barge engines through
leaving only fifteen feet on either side.
Several stand in awe.
Fishermen reel in their lives.
The bargemen pose for Brownies.
Beyond the canvas chairs an amusement park readies itself.

7
The evening fills with families, couples, solitaire players.
Their painted dispositions color the back seat
of a large, black, calm sedan.
Its driver makes the most of the eel flies
that crunch when the sedan rolls over them
on its way out.

2:40 AM

O. Winston Link and his assistant
chronicle the last days of steam

locomotives rumbling through town
four warning blasts at the crossing.

A Chinese takeaway enjoys a stem of Malbec.
You examine religious artifacts and collages

and a life drawing class
in the bedroom

captivated
by the mouth

and angle of shoulders
as she turns to read the script’s next line.

O. Winston Link

A Good Time for a Blueberry Muffin

Or so I thought, but then a baglady stalled the checkout line insisting she had the answer to this morning's Minute Mystery. The manager appeared with bowtie and dog-eared copy of Crisis Management and promptly swept her through the automatic doors and into the parking lot where she now stands, spouting, in the falsetto of a soccer mom, that she's married to the local storm window king, a mail-order-minister-cum-entrepreneur whose ads, identified by the outline of a fish, clutter the local cable. He will not be happy when he hears about her mistreatment. Meanwhile, the manager has leaned in for a word with the Sheriff of Nottingham, who seems to have eaten himself out of his tights which reminds me, I'd better pick up a bag or two of fish and chips. The bagboy at the end of the checkout line has the knowing smile of a Zen master. He has seen this all before two or three times.

On the Disappointment of Things Gone Wrong

          for Sandy Sheedy

We walk the breakers at the tip of Provincetown,
tide out, crossing to the lighthouse on the far shore,

you briefly topless. Offshore,
whale watchers scan the horizon for blowholes,

a sailboat sways. Later,
we return in water up to our shoulders,

boat shoes held high above my head -
you, in white shorts and t-shirt over black bikini,

hysterical with laughter.
We enter the Moors without a reservation,

bask in the jokes of the piano player,
wade through three or four beers

before being shown to a table
next to a group of young men

who include us in their celebration
of Marilyn Monroe,

as our Portuguese bread and Portuguese soup arrive
under a cloud of steam.

The Moors, Provincetown, MA

The Cobblestones, Especially

They've a mind of their own
scribbled on the wall of a faux ruin
fragments of Doric columns
lying about, a brown bagger's leftovers
smoldering in the heat.
There are plenty of stories like this
on public television
especially during pledge week.
The worldwide abhorrence of domestic chores
is one that comes to mind.
Or the railroad spreading west,
uprooting settlements,
plundering hair salons and delis
in full view of the early afternoon sun,
the lunchtime crowd barely out the door.
Or the service of tea in the basement
of an opera house, where the mold
speaks in tongues to those
born amid the dawning of the Age of Steel.
Can you imagine being responsible
for coordinating the playtimes of hundreds
while maintaining a strict radio silence?
Or comparing dishwashing detergents
using a standard metric?
Or what about editing a treatise
on doggy styles for seniors
with hearing impairments?
Are we really as fathomless
as we would like to believe?
A giant in the field of architecture
made that mistake while falling
head over heels for a fuzzy anchor
from one of the commercial networks.
She was the same giant -
bag and shoes perfectly matched -
who had insisted
that small colorful toy trains
with cute names like Toby and Tammy
be inserted randomly into boxes
of Cracker Jack.
Some have become collectibles
and occasionally show up on eBay.

Morphology

Inconsequentials and their associates
rear up, and you begin
writing down presenting symptoms
for your analyst, an Adlerian,
on sabbatical in Bimini.
You’ve dreamed of (dreaded?) this moment
for what, 10, 15, 20 years?
And of course the riff raff, accolades,
and, let’s not forget, the rush.
The angles of involvement begin -
a white-water-white-knuckle affair.
You panic and pack, withholding nothing,
consulting your jottings
with jittery fingers
the elements of reference out the window
and through the woods,
to grandmother’s house.
If only you had taken the time
to steel yourself against the moment -
the moment as anticipated, as rehearsed,
the moment now presiding
from the corner of your small, stuffy room,
teasing you, locking the door,
shouting, scribbling on the walls,
taking you back
to that theme park whose rides,
though fun for most,
were, for you, night terrors.

How It Works

Three of them cavort in the back seat
of a periwinkle stretch limo.
I am captivated by their sirens.

We stop for dinner and drinks
with cute little paper umbrellas
at a fancy restaurant with a French-sounding name.

The cute little paper umbrellas
keep opening and closing.
I am dizzy with delight.

We are shown to an intimate table
with intimate chairs by an intimate window
overlooking a choppy sea.

Our waiter brings us the house specialty.
We slather it with A1,
to the dismay of the animal rightists seated to our left.

A violist moves us with a little known etude
by the reclusive Sainte Colombe.
We tip her to the tune of twenty percent.

She sees our twenty and raises it twenty,
setting off a hostile musical takeover.
Our talk turns to lust and skin cream.

A cargo ship in distress
in the choppy sea below our intimate window
diverts our attention.

Lifeboats are commandeered.
For a while, it is touch and go.
The dinner parties play touch football

to amuse themselves.
The Donner Party eventually wins,
devouring the opposing team.

The ship's survivors are ushered into the restaurant
by waiters in waders
and taken to a large banquet hall.

The tables are turned,
unfolded,
and covered with leftover birthday wrap.

Rhubarb

In our sundown perambulations of late through the outer parts of
Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing base,
a certain game of ball. Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in
our lungs. Let us leave our close rooms. The game of ball is glorious.
          - Walt Whitman, Brooklyn Eagle, July 23, 1846

A mustachioed cabbie warms up in the bullpen
his yellow hybrid curbside idling with bookmakers
who only last week insinuated themselves
into a croupier's REM sleep.

The gaming table is a party of thirteen,
the room overrun by green walking sticks -
the kind seen in movies
when movies cost a quarter
and were shown back-to-back on Saturday afternoons.

One of them taps out Russian roulette.
Another holds up an old-fashioned large-faced clock.

Good afternoon, sports fans!

Win. Place. Show.
The ponies are ready to go.
Security is befuddled,
their orange nylon jackets billowing in the wind.

The first pitch is swung on.

The web-footed are on the mound.
Maybe now we can expect a shift in the market
and a change in the batting order.
The gulls, of course, couldn't care less
indifferent to the ancient yellow bulldozer
chuffing across the landfill.

The runner is stealing second base.

A dusty main street in a spaghetti western -
the ideal afternoon!
Is time running out?
The down-on-their-luck engage a Glass Bead Game
then take the Green Line to the stadium.
An APB is put out.
Someone's skiff arrives in a pepper mill's runoff.
Several escape through a hidden panel in the library -
a secret place filled with grandmothers from the Old Country
rocking away the hot summer afternoon
their Polish prayer books opened to the third inning.

There must be a God.
How else to account for this?

For many, a morning's reading of cereal boxes
segues into an afternoon of QVC.
Spiffiness aside, each one of us jockeys for a spin.

The windup, and the pitch.

A foothold will get most of us through
but only if we complete our tasks in a timely manner.
Perhaps a move to a warmer cubicle
will ensure that our fingers do the walking.
Could you please remind me again
of the plan's comprehensive benefits
before I move on to the parched middle
with my hot dog and beer?

Bases loaded, and the pitch.

Four short warning blasts:
a freight train lumbers through the crossing.
Three-fifty-five AM.
Newsies will soon begin sorting papers for the morning routes.
Later, migrant workers who cut asparagus
will break around a picnic table
eat lunch, smoke cigarettes, play cards,
listen to the game on the radio.

The plants are vigorous and disease-resistant,
a good bet for the majors.

The Glass Cat Sat

the glass cat sat
for five years
in the glass case
in the penny arcade

looking out
at the kids
who came
with quarters

to play
the games
for tokens
to cash in

for prizes
in the glass case
where the glass cat
once sat

Strange Evening #2

Did you wait for that strange evening
to pulverize the past
to underline the pop-psych texts
that spoke to you after-hours
that dared you to come closer
relegating your wishes
to the toy box you kept
for so many years
under your bed
beneath the stairs?
Listen.
The cat at the door brings tidings
from the charming little village
nestled deep in the wood
in the painting that hangs
over your fireplace.
Take note of the swallows
circling above the red barn
the one you snuck into
that summer afternoon
when you thought no one was looking.

Tall Barn  by Tracy Helgeson

Backwoods Woman

You've trained
the dogs well.
They meet my Jeep
as it turns
onto your long
rough drive,
yapping
at its wheels.
Wood cut and split,
neatly stacked.
Smoke rising
from the warmth
of your stove.

And Then What Happened?

I made my way along a narrow passage lined with faded photographs of strangers who had won Golden Book Awards. I found a scrapbook among the matchbooks on the back porch. It had been placed there under lock and key. I opened it and read the directions which were printed in Japanese with a fuzzy font. Nip it in the bud was the only thing I could make out. I rechecked the parts order just to be sure. The twins burst through the door of the trailer and began scrambling eggs with a marionette, mumbling tales about their grandfather, a WWII vet. It was obvious they were being stoic about something enormous left on the stoop with a note pinned to its trousers. A bright yellow Tonka dump truck took a dive. The twins panicked. A chef's torso stared out of the sleeper no doubt awaiting a curtain call. Bodies in motion in the weatherbeaten clapboards slipping past glued themselves to screens with Elmer's for the latest culinary treat. The lights dimmed. A disembodied voice informed us of the location of the emergency exits.

The Sommelier Stands Behind His Recommendation

Cowering, actually, in the fifty-five degree shadow
cast by the solitary sixty-watt hanging

from a cobwebbed cord seemingly as old
as the burgundies in their corked glass,

he samples the crimson surreptitiously,
as if lunatics were watching from the windowless walls,

his face reflected in the dimples of the tiny silver goblet
dangling from his creased neck.

Her First Bicycle

          for Hana

She calls it her bicyble,
and though I could've had the shop assemble it,
I wanted to do it myself.
I wanted to grease the axles
align the wheels
tighten the spokes, myself.
Not for the ten bucks
but for the peace of mind
knowing that I made it ready for her. 
In the store, she hopped on the floor model
and took off down the aisle,
the clerk marveling at this three-year-old's ability.
Like father like daughter, I thought.
And now we're out here
on the bike path,
waddling along,
loving it more than the Tour de France,
more than all other tours combined.
Some day soon, at her tugging,
I'll remove the training wheels.
We'll go to a park.
I'll help her keep balanced at first,
my hand placed, inconspicuously,
not to break her concentration.
Then, picking up speed
on some small grassy downhill -
'cause that's where the books say
kids should be taught to ride a two-wheeler -
I'll remove my hand,
while running alongside, and slowly
let her go.

Singing with Parched Tongue

With the incidentals tucked away
it was time to review the elements of the latest visit:
the left turns, blank pages, painted toenails.

Laying out on the deck in the sun
with a book
is always an interesting prelude

to a hike perhaps among the high peaks
or a visit to a gallery -
the specifics matter little

despite requiring a rewrite
as well as a trip
to Walmart or Boscov’s or Kohl’s or wherever

to pick up a cover-up
which with the right choreography
can excite with the intensity of a bright palette.

Instead, we target the eclipse
and drag out the telescope
peering through the lens as if we knew

which direction next:
the ranks pulled, lines drawn, shopping list edited
for the umpteenth time.

Horticulturist

1
His hands have turned into leaves
despite his advanced degrees
and his years on the lecture circuit
where college auditoriums welcome him
with handshakes phrased in the form of questions.

2
His iPad makes it happen,
informing the horticulturist's pub-crawling after-hours
where barkeeps
tight-lipped and loose-skinned
water his plants
and test his sobriety
as if their lives depended on it.

3
The horticulturist provides expert testimony
for the court stenographer's long fingers
while local cable stations
zoom in on the alleged parties
frolicking on the courthouse steps.

4
This is how it plays out
on those days when you least expect it.
Your number comes up.
But you've misplaced your ticket.
You begin searching through your papers,
emptying your pockets,
sprouting every excuse imaginable,

5
when suddenly the horticulturist appears,
his hands caked with mud,
his face soiled.
This is the least of your worries.

6
He offers the cutting edge in gardening tips
and in a weak moment you jot them down
and fax them to family and friends,
having received word from above
that you'll have some free time on the weekend
to spend in the garden
with a blue ribbon panel.

Inlaid with Cherry

My five-year-old
keeps red and yellow rubber jacks
in the jewelry box
he made
for her fourth birthday.

Strange Evening #1

Did you wait for that strange evening
to swallow hard
to snap at you like the rabid dog
from your childhood
that lived across the tracks
and ran wild
through the streets
of your small town?
A station wagon pulls in
and sits there, idling.
The clock ticks past reason.
The luggage and kitchen island
stare back at you
like the sound stage of your dreams
then tip the attendant
and leave without saying goodbye.

The Generous Logic of Friendship

Little pieces of us fall away
as we move along
through the same doors
down the same hallways
into the same rooms
sitting in the same chairs
at the same tables
using the same utensils
enjoying the same meals
the same bottles of wine.
Some across bodies of water
to float to distant shores
others through tunnels
still others into wood.
Coming and going
appearing
disappearing.
Nothing demanded.
The held hand slowly slipping away
until years later
sitting on the back porch
on a warm early summer evening
we reach for our glass
and find a piece
innocently clinging to our open palm.

Egon Schiele

Audio Clips from the Cutting Room Floor

The refrigerator empty.

He was broke.

A pizza arrived.

Chorus:
Who said that?

Papers to be delivered.
Papers to be read.
Papers to be signed.
Papers to be corrected.
Papers to be edited.
Papers to be published.
Papers to be thrown out.
Papers to be recycled.

Papers. Papers. Papers.

On TV, the crying of terrible weapons.

He did what he had to do.

This just in: Door-to-door suits at the door.

In the street, black and whites.

Some have been placed under a gag order.

On TV, a daguerreotype.

A recognizable image.

Chorus:
Which kicked off a boom in kitchenware.

Too much left unsaid.
Too much left uneaten.
Too late now for a doggie bag.

Your airtime is available immediately.

We await joy.

Tumbling into entropy.

On the front lawn robins argue in pantomime.

The silliness of what?

Chorus:
So it goes.


Julian Curry in Krapp's Last Tape (1966)

 

A Cup of Joe

Before moving to this city I'd never heard it put that way. So, for a while, I had this vision of chowing down on chunks of the poor sap who drew the shortest straw and was bopped on the head, put out of his misery, sliced, diced, cupped, and shared among the rest of us in the lifeboat. Y'know what I mean, like we were in that film directed by that British chap - the profile poser - the guy whose mugshot floated by in a newspaper; picked up by the Rachel, the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children.... - at least that's what it says on page 536 of my copy of that lit hit subtitled The Whale - found this dude clinging to some savage's coffin, and a couple hundred knots beyond, found us, and impressed us into service - wouldn't y'know - on that creaky, water-logged, whaler-wannabe, that skimmed the Horn, and eventually dropped anchor off the coast of Tahiti, where the not-so-friendly natives wined and dined on us, after introducing us to this banker-turned-painter, who brewed a titillating pot of coffee and proceeded to drone on about various exploits he'd shared with some red-haired-maniac-artist-Kirk-Douglas-look-alike, whose spectacles kept sliding over the hole where his ear shoulda been, shortly before we were cauldroned while enjoying this incredible extemporaneous exhibition of drumming and chanting.



It Will Be As If We Never Were

The plate umpire removes his mask with a flourish
in the third inning of a double header,
a grocery list including overripe plums
mingles with the lint in his right front pocket.

He will not forget the plums this time
and he will be home in time to watch Bowling for Dollars
with his ex-wife's purring cats.
He will soon be among the missing.

The players, seeing this, scratch their shaved heads,
and leave the field in a cloud of dust
and a hearty Hi Ho Silver Away on their way to a taproom.
The field will be overrun by dandelions.
The taproom razed.

A misplaced modifier plucking a banjo on a two-wheeler
heading out of town is profiled by a black-and-white.

The accoutrements from It's a Wonderful Life
enter stage left and float balloon-like
above a metropolis's exposed underbelly.
They follow the well-worn path of least resistance
on their way to the Best One Trick Pony Awards
for whatever year it happens to be.

Overripe plums huddle in a crisper
while outside a croquet match heats up.

Someone or something cameos a house
in multiple listings. The bulging dumpster holds
the breaking news.

A garage sale for kitchen appliances
that were taken on a wild payment plan ride to hell
spills out into the street.

Library books spring up, annoyed and overdue.

All of it sounds too good to be anything but.

Of course the sun will rise on cue
the paper will lay spread-eagled at the end of the drive
and the rain will roll off our tongues
on those nights when we take the time to listen.

All the Lots with Wall Power Sold

A rickety tom looks up at the returning geese
from his curl on the porch. Blackbirds pick
at the front lawn. A glider creaks. Etudes flow
from an open window. Two cars get hosed.
The shutter speed quickens, the shelf life
logged with cereal boxes, coffee grounds.
But the pictures fade, leaving us with ticket stubs
and appetites. Witness the laundry
with its plausible conclusion. I remember
when the machines were installed and how
we laughed at the delivery-man-cum-circus-clown
who arrived with twenty other twenty-somethings
in a dinky car straight from the Sullivan show.
And to think it was time to reshuffle the cards.
Driving away with the two of them sitting
on the back deck surrounded by honey bees
buzzing the refrain, But I'm not doing anything!
And the bridge came tumbling down.
Hula Hoops like camshafts under street lights.
We carried salt shakers for pilfered tomatoes.
A cherry bomb exploded near a stand-in's ear.
I caught hell from two old biddies who ran a still
out of their greenhouse. Was it you who organized
the weekly neighborhood quilting bees? 
Of course, there were clarinet lessons
and the drop-off disrupting the watching of
Of Mice and Men with Malkovich and Sinise
riding off into the sunset on the waves at Provincetown.
Pizza vendors, waiting to board a Whale Watch,
sitting on the curb, people-watching. Is a chapter
a week do-able at sixty-seven words a minute?
There never seemed to be enough paper
and important messages were always
being whited-out. Fortunately, all the lots
with wall power sold. We found ourselves
in the boss's office with seven sets of twins
rehearsing a Doublemint commercial.
Once gainfully employed as a retractor,
he disappeared and hasn't resurfaced.
The pond got murky. It's been that way for months
despite the carnival atmosphere. Next time
I'll return the typewriter carriage myself.

The Nuanced Perception of a Survivor (in 9 1/2 Acts)

Act 1

You seem to enjoy chasing after what's his/her name.
And you're pretty good at replacing wiper blades.

Wiper blades? Yes. Simple. Just follow the steps: 1, 2, 3.
But now the slopes have lost their powder.

Act 2

Have you lost interest in trimming sails?

Not sure.
I'm all green thumbs. What to do?

Take them to the flower bed, and while you're at it,
count the number of red vehicles between two logarithmic points.
You were always a wiz at math.

Act 3

Have you tallied your nibs?

Yes, and I've sharpened the point I want to make
which seems to be hovering over there.

Over where?

Over there, by the takeout sushi counter.
There are so many things I've had to put on hold.

No problem. Next time, choose public transportation,
and you'll be ferried into another dimension.

And then?

The person you should be will appear.

And then?

I don't know. Talk to him/her. Compare notes.

Act 4

I've heard she's doing very well, thank you.

Act 5

There's no time like the present.

Really?

Tell me everything you know about me.

I'm not sure I can.

What do you mean?

Preoccupation.

What?

Preoccupation. It's key to this and to many other things.

What other things?

Oh, I don't know, just other things.

OK, that was good. Let's do that again.

Act 6

But this time, please don't squeeze the Charmin.

Act 7

(Dear Reader: Improvise this act/stanza. Thank you.)

Act 8

You've come a long way.

Yes, but I've miles to go before I try to get to sleep.

Problem?

Restless legs. They keep me up.

Have you tried magnesium?

Magnesium? I'll have to check with the folks
sitting around the periodic table.
But there are other things going on as well.

Such as?

Well, it seems that I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Yes, and . . . ?

It's just that so much depends upon . . .

Upon what? A blade of grass?

No, that doesn't sound right. I see chickens.

Act 9

Google him/her before it's too late.

Forget it. He/she is a no-show, and a bore.

Boring can be good.

I've made that mistake before, and you know where it got me.

I'm not going to promise anything.
It's just that I hate to see it end this way.
There was so much . . .

So much what?

So much, . . . well, so much everything.

Act 9 1/2

All perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said. . . .

Knut Skjærven

There’s a World Where I Can Go

Some people [traveling through the Swiss Alps] apparently even had landscapes with tidy Greek temples and other classical scenes painted on the inside of the carriage blinds to protect them against the vast disorder outside.
          - Sara Maitland A Book of Silence

I sometimes lose myself in the murals
on the walls of my room.
I have no idea who painted them.
They remind me of an episode of
Tales from the Dark Side
but I try not to go there often
because as I recall,
the guy who got into the painting
in the episode I’m talking about
couldn’t get out
kind of like Vincent Price’s head
getting stuck on the body of a fly
in the final scene of the original movie
pleading Help me!
to a woman on a park bench
as a spider closes in.
But forget that scenario.
Re-entry is always a problem
given the current kneejerkiness
over national security.
It makes me think about profiles
but don’t worry
I’m not going to segue
into a diatribe on profiling.
I’ll save that for another poem.
But then, if getting out is tough
maybe I’d be better off
hanging out there for a while.
We all need to get away occasionally, yes?

Who Me?

I celebrate myself, and sing myself.
          - Walt Whitman

I am a splitter of hairs
A splitter of infinitives
A condescender
A manipulator of runes
A ne'er-do-well
A conjurer of the illicit
Reaping the benefits of a reluctant education
A spectator of board games and sights unseen
A stirrer-upper
An interloper astride a billboard with pockets bulging

I ask you this day
To look deep into your sentences
As you would have me look deep into mine
And you will find me
Lurking behind the comma, the semicolon, the ellipsis

A fumbler of lines and balls
A collector of shadows
A concocter of schemes
A Monday morning quarter note
A modifier of words worldwide
A thrower of Frisbees
A partaker of freebies
Bounded on one shore by the blank page
On the other by the unconscious

I implore you to seek out your voice
It is unlike anything you can imagine
Anything you can lose

I loafe and disengage myself
And invite you to loafe and disengage yourself

I am reproachful, remorseless, redundant
I overstate myself
And repeat myself
And repeat myself
A babbler of inanities
A bamboozler in flannel shirt open at the neck
An enigmatic docudramatist
A miniserialist
A sharpener of pencils
A purveyor of images common and uncommon
Everything notwithstanding
Everyone
Everywhere

Walt Whitman

A Revelatory Aside

And yet the birds continue their morning songs
their morning revelries
following nights of thrashing
nights of intruders, hooded,
with shopping bags hung from frail wrists.
Everywhere, up and down the roadway,
the cotton unfurls
eyes fix on the mouths of babes
hands clutch fallen leaves
and fallen memories.
Everywhere shopkeepers display measures of will. 
Only yesterday we worried the resurfacing
of the tennis court,
the repainting of the screens
for the Mikado's summer run.
Only yesterday we counted our change
and our friends.
Will we ever again have enough time
with the sun at its highest
to say what should be said
to caress unlined, tranquil faces mid-afternoon
in white rooms with breeze-filled curtains?
Look over there. The steps of those
once holed-up in oubliettes
join with us as we begin our journey back
across wooden bridges and barren fields
across parking lots and cemeteries
clappers announcing our way
against the soggy newspaper
that couldn’t wait that morning
to broadcast its headline
on an otherwise sky-blue day,
buses and trains drop-jawed,
catching us off-guard as well with little else
but perversities stuffed into our timeworn pockets.

At the Composer's Forum, John Takes Issue

Batons at the ready
composers pore over scores
as members of the audience
enigmatic and enormous
fill their notebooks
with anecdotes
which months hence blocked
they will drag out at three AM
hoping for the notes
to fly to the staff
jump-starting their pencil.
It's too early to predict a libretto
that will satisfy everyone
but for the moment at least
the strings can be heard
fine-tuning, above the shuffling.
Even the kitchen staff stop
what they're doing
and stand stone still
souffles puckering on burners.
John, fresh from an appetizer,
studies the trifold
then sits with his hands
over his ears, trying to get
the closing bars right.
He will spend the next two years
beginning the ending
collaborating with his current live-in
a budding ethnomusicologist who,
back from a trip to Asia Minor
where she studied the lost art
of noise, is here this evening
gaunt and Gucci'd
documenting the forum
for the next issue of Composer.

And When on Muggy Days

And when on muggy days, hybridizers bask in their fifteen minutes, signing CDs, utterly disbelieving the inked-in portions, it's time to pull out the stops from five-star organs and return to that scene from Chinatown where acronyms failed and PIs welcomed small change from strangers in sinister overcoats. Plagues continue to sprint across the screen, unflappable in their synchronicity, tallying the victims on their off days, normal folk rising to the aroma of coffee beans, schoolbuses depositing their packets under the tattered cloth. Winsome, though we are, it is difficult to imagine a happy ending stocked with finger foods from the four corners, spotlighting white sand and shortbread featured on late night infomercials between station-breaks that leave viewers with a strange taste in their mouth. And when we try to sort it out, to file it under Nice Try, to back-burner it, it nonetheless returns, unopened with insufficient postage, as if it knew all along that it would never leave, that it had in fact become indispensable to the awkward construction of our beautiful life.

The Book of Common Prayer

          after Eamon Grennan

Cast-off clothes clutter the upstairs hall.
The bathroom begs for mercy.
Cereal boxes gape.
Backpacks are packed and ready.

She flies around the room
trailing hats, gloves, a purple parka,
homework assignments,
lunch money, the cat's meow.

Standing in her shadow, I observe
the geometries of my life
the angles of its seduction.
The school bus lumbers onto the street.

Its octagonal sign swings out.
Flashers flash. Beepers beep.
It's never too late.
The bus door sighs open.

She scales the steps
and disappears into the yellow,
leaving me, alone, in my common world,
derelict, with my misspellings.