Clearing a Space

I clear a space.
          -Matthew Arnold

When asked
how he found time
to practice
the piano
he replied
I clear a space.
I like that.
I clear a space.
That's what
I need to do.
Clear a space.
Take stock.
Trim the fat.
Decide
what's important.
What I can't live without.
I've got to
clear out a corner
in my room
prepare the
surface
assemble the tools
and
leave them there
ready
out in the open
for moments
so intense
I'm hurled into that corner
exploding.

Some Bells  by Joan Mitchell

Second Position

Yesterday's walkabout went quite well, the three chairs in the olive grove welcoming the visitors who had boarded the bus as a last resort with open arms which turned out to be stuffed with aspiring actors and cotton batting. The ballet dancers in the second position were the first to point(e) this out, while the rest of the company caught unaware at the barre noted that the invitations had been printed with an error which spelled disaster as far as they were concerned but once the stage hands were idle and the curtain was raised, all fell into place as if nothing had happened which in fact was true. It was a bit of a stretch, even for ballet dancers, to assume the worst case scenario, and later someone was seen jotting down a reminder to have security look into the ingredients of the house specials for the night of October 10, 1996, a night of incidental amusements and wilted lettuce. With all this finally behind us we sat back eager to dive into our popcorn awaiting the performance which to our wrinkled disappointment was cancelled because a leek of all things was found in the soup.

Cataloging the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa

Bernini saw it in three-dimensions -
head thrown back, eyes half-closed, lips parted.
Tons of marble floating.

Cataloging the ecstasy of Saint Teresa
you cross over
and find yourself in a choral group

performing Arvo Pärt’s The Peace.
This is good. This is really good.
The puzzle at the foot of your bed?

You try to recall the connection.
The mystery of happiness without remorse
or something like that. You’re not sure.

Here’s how it’s done, the caped magician told you
after your eighth birthday party.
Misdirection. Misdirection.

Saint Teresa in Ecstasy by Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini

Icarus's Ghost

          after Auden's Musée des Beaux Arts

Three hours into a four-hour meeting I see it -
shrunken, bird-like, flying around the room

swooping in and out of PowerPoints
pausing near Vincent's Sunflowers

hovering above the presenter just in from Secaucus.
He should have listened to his father.

He should have stuck to the flight plan.
Two counties over, a farmer milks cows

in a frigid barn, puffs of breath linger.
A fisherman drills a hole through the ice.

The fish have been watching him for years.
They too know the sting of the barb

the punishing yank into sunlight
the gasping amidst the cruelty of words.

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus  by Peter Bruegel

Long Distance

He celebrates his new life
with the vigor of a vaudevillian
tap dancing through the hole in a fence
for the fortune in a cookie
willingly confiding his obsessions
to eager ears without
so much as a wrinkle.
A pleasant rain soundtracks
most of his evenings.
He studies the migratory patterns
of horizons, and on weekends
loses himself in memorials
to wetland heroes -
whimsical affairs with nests
of loons resting upended
in multi-colored tablet-treated
water fountains.

Mount Colden's summit:
each step
a chess move

The Last Hill

We all knew it was there.
We'd come down it the first mile
of this out-and-back half.
For the next 11, though,
we forgot about it,
losing it to the vexations of the race,
the small victories and defeats
of each step,
the undulating bike path,
the splits, surges, water stops,
camaraderie, colors, conversation.
And yet it stood there
waiting for us,
waiting to greet us again at 12 miles,
to mock us,
to sap our strength
our determination,
to squeeze our lungs,
reducing stride to shuffle,
to tempt us
with Eden's garden of walking paths,
to test us now
when the smell of the finish line
fills our nostrils,
overwhelms all consciousness,
to remind us
that no one is ever home free.

Keepers

We'd work the pools on the Schoharie
between Burtonsville and Lost Valley

scrambling over rocks
trying to avoid the slippery ones covered with slime

crisscrossing from shore to shore
in and out of the water

in cut-off jeans
worn-out Keds with felt glued to their soles for traction

fishing vest pinned with flies
baseball cap.

We'd be out there
just about every day of bass season

late afternoon July through September
when the elusive smallmouth were feeding

searching for the perfect cast
the perfect throw

perfecting the art of laying the fly
on the riffling surface

to lure the smallmouth from their cool darkness
with its mimicry of life.

All this for the hit, the strike
the bending of the rod

tightening of the line slicing the surface
as it followed an ancient mariner

whose occasional leaps
through a rainbow of glistening scales

were better than fireworks on the fourth.
We'd let him run

hoping he wouldn't snag the line
between rocks or under driftwood

playing him, giving him slack
until fatigue led him to the net.

Then, we'd let him go.

9/11/2001 - 9/11/2011

Woman IV

She calls me Ishmael
and choreographs
a dance from the pages
of Moby Dick.
Her costumes mimic
the South Seas.
Her toenails
are the color of whales.
I experience restless legs.



Strange Evening #7

Did you wait for that strange evening
when your nametagged double approached you
at the intersection of parties
with an update on the cast and crew of your old life
when friends came together weekly
to compare fonts
and share experiments in words?
Your former self was there too
and your lover
retracing the mistakes you both made
on a street map
the high points bolded in pigment
doors opening as you passed your fingers over them.
There is still time, you know.
There always is (at least we’d like to believe).
Your trusty steed awaits.
You can travel to whatever farther reaches
appealed to you when you saw them -
for the first time was it? - whiteboarded
alphabetically in Ben & Jerry’s on Lark.

End of Summer

His voice fills the squawk box:
a Westerner in a white, ten-gallon hat

like those worn by Saturday morning superheroes
who battled outlaws, recovered the gold, and won the girl.

He says the obelisk in the center of town
reminds him of Donald Duck.

I don't see it.
Bill's Bicycle Shop now has a phone.

We can call in our reservations and drop off our resumes.
I'd like a quiet table overlooking the aquifer

with enough intimacy to exclude bike messengers
who keep insisting that rowdy riding

is what good deliveries are all about.
Some have even taken to the streets on rollerblades

wearing helmets, elbow and knee pads, gloves.
I think it started with Madonna.

The screenwriter's guild is a presence worth emulating
especially when the wait staff keep us waiting like this.

The blackberries along the bike path
were delicious in the nineties

but most likely will be gone when we return
from our trip to the hinterland

where the locals claim to have seen fish fly
and restauranteurs cower.

He said he'll keep riding until it snows.
Good for him!

She introduced a touching anecdote about pussy willows
which sped the meeting along

until a hireling in sequined cummerbund announced
that the buffet was ready despite rumors to the contrary.

Induced Amnesia

You count brain shards from the dislocation,
the uncoupling
galloping across the landscape
swollen with rupture.
So, it just won’t happen.
Something about pealing.
The bells in the village, perhaps?
The village dismantled.
The village as nitwit with Styrofoamed beans’ brew.
You’d be better off returning
to your position in the fold, in the field,
in the fray, as they say, awaiting the confluence.
(Insert Beckett’s "I’ll go on" here.)
But this time to live with another
and the other
dancing to the parroting
of the coldly clinical.
Really?
Perhaps not (Guffaw!)
tallying the lesions of war
waxing nostalgic
swimming upstream with all your might.

Drowning in a Labyrinth of Words

Was this a warning for the approaching storm
the storm that would lose you in its sheets of rain?
There were moments of calm.
Expected I guess.
But then the galleys arrived
and correcting them
I found numerous errors
and reached for my green Sharpie
but then thought What the hell,
don’t we each construct the furniture for our decks
and secure them for unseen moments?

Woman III

And she can be monochromatic
in a colorful way
trumping cards
unceremoniously
while edging forward in her seat
to expose her hand.
Her whimsy attracts bees
and keeps acquaintances at bay.
Grocery clerks love
to check her out.

Lily Cole

Strange Evening #6

Did you wait for that strange evening
when the lights dimmed on cue
to run out of the house
and into the backyard
celebrating the emptiness?
The echo was your friend.
You walked along the dark streets
painting Xs on lampposts.
Too bad they fell off the truck.
Too bad they lingered a moment too long.
The delivery man lost your address
and failed to radio ahead.
Your cell phone tracked you here
to this theater
where the audience sits
masked and silent
waiting for the organ recital to begin.

Fading to Black

Unannounced inspections are chatted up.
Someone botched the last job
and that someone is back again today
to take another crack at it
board game tucked
into his Harley's sidecar.
There's little doubt that merriment
will begin again shortly.
We've always been able to count
on that around here
picking and choosing
from both columns
which over the years have arrayed themselves
in colorful, alphabetical order.

Casual Friday Field Guide

1. Seersucker
2. Gabardine pocket protector
3. Wide-whale cords
4. Keyboarded memoirs with footnotes, addenda, and full-color graphics
5. Self portrait as still-life with mangy hound and carport
6. Crayolas
7. On-again off-again love-interest
8. Malted Milk Balls
9. 1000 free text minutes
10. Inflatable passengers

Somewhere, the Sun is Conversing

Somewhere, the sun is conversing.
Flip-flopping window-shoppers sip Styrofoamed lattes

while texting Facebooked friends,
their children living happily in bedtime stories,

looking for the prize in every box.
Fortunate bakers bag dozens for engineers

whose diesel locomotives chuff lazily through crossings,
semaphores signaling clear tracks ahead,

the big picture memorialized for Flickr.
Even the birds have hung up their aprons

testing the surface for the usual kinds of things
as time strolls lopsidedly through evergreened neighborhoods.

Dear Reader, the figure at the edge of the screen
has something to tell us, if only we would listen.

Woman II

She appears as my waitress
and critiques my penmanship.
I give her my order
but she returns
empty-handed
then leaves
with the short-order cook.
Driving home
I can't get her reflection
out of my rearview mirror.

Stella Tennant

Bagging Groceries for a Song and a Dance

Little Miss What's-Her-Face arrived about an hour ago
trailing an entourage of Lhasa Apsos.

They wasted no time getting down to begging.
What a fiasco!

I thought she'd become persona-non-grata
after her last appearance in the middle of a sidewalk sale

lip-syncing one of the arias from Madame Butterfly.
It turned into a veritable nor'easter.

Coast Guardsmen, armed with postscripts from nominees,
were dispatched in of all things bonnets.

Evidently It's a Wash

Apparitions with arms akimbo fill the streets.
We put our plans on hold.
Visions of popcorn dance on our graves.
We had hoped to start from scratch but time ran out.
Instead we join situation comics
in the land of makebelieve
to capture the colors of chameleons.
Before embarking on our quest,
we sit down with cider and doughnuts
at the neighborhood supermarket.
They are superb conversationalists.
I am bedazzled by the constellations
of canned soups and decide
to spend a few days as a vacation of sorts
on the shelf in aisle E.

Strange Evening #5

Did you wait for that strange evening
to look in on you while you slept
replacing the tiles in your bathroom
to confuse you further
replacing the faint song that welcomed you
at so late an hour
the song you wrote lyrics for
and loved to sing to the guests
who arrived after months of travel
in the middle of a rainstorm?

Wild Turkeys

Again this morning in the pasty light
harbinger of another scorcher

wild turkeys plucked grubs
with the accuracy of archers

then pattered past me single file
along the stone wall and into the woods.

Exhibition(ist)

The skin of the painting suggests the fired surface of a ceramic object*:

(her) skin:

The singular first impact combined with the iconographic imagery is both naive and elegant:

naive and elegant

The paintings display a deep-seated belief in the love of the surface achieved by complex means:

paintings

Subsequent viewings vibrate with joy:

with

The images are simple yet deeply satisfying:

deeply

The relationship between the intuitive and the controlled is seductive:

seductive

providing memories of ephemerality and evanescence.

memories

*Ron Ehrlich Exhibition Catalog (Stephen Haller Gallery) 2004

A Turn of Fate  by Ron Ehrlich

Woman I

Her legs encircle my dreams.
There's so much mystery
I keep losing my place.
The morning coffee barks
and the dogs perk.
I am beside myself.
I think of coupons.
Midday, I twirl,
and have taken up ventriloquism
at the local mannequin shelter.

Lying  by Egon Schiele

Mooring

Instead she slithered into a short skirt
and danced away memories
catching his eye, and his cold.

Outside, a gnome practiced the alphabet
as they slid into the gray hearse
that first night for the long talk home,

their breaths intermingling at minus five.
A pas de deux was followed by cappuccinos
and more;

eyes, for the first time in years,
or so she thought,
caressing every word

that crossed her full red lips.
Later, they would check each other's vitals,
and vow to lead a healthier life,

filled with music and flowers.
Math problems and pasta were listed
among their credits,

a new voice lifting them above the drone
of the supermarket checkout line.
They held each other with dreams

that last night in the parking lot
while the band played on and on,
knowing the white house would spring up

like a rude mushroom,
and send them crashing to earth
all too suddenly.

Greta Garbo

Updiked At Sixteen

A twelve-year-old
does figure-eights

on his barleycorn-flavored bicycle
in the church parking lot.

He will remain fatherless.
His widowed mother

stands on the corner of their street
with checkered flag,

posting the finishers
to the 1961 Indianapolis 500.

A keypunch operator,
she spends her days in a scriptorium,

with Hollerith at her fingertips.
Two blocks away in a five-and-dime,

the twelve-year-old,
now sixteen,

is about to discover Pigeon Feathers,
remaindered,

is about to be sheparded
beyond the lumber of English 11

and into the hills
alive with the sound of Muzak.

Capturing Moments with Sharpies

We do not remember days, we remember moments.
          - Cesare Pavese

You could swear you’ve been here before
this scene from the Age of Innocence
but you don’t remember whether you were with anyone -
anyone worth remembering that is.
You remember being upstaged at Starbuck’s
your five minute car wash
a five hour trance with a bumper buffer.
You can’t imagine what you were thinking
so you retrieve your journal entry
and take out the Sharpies.
Your aptitude refreshed you remember
that you were trying to master
the Art of the Wheel
(Is that why your father is here?)
No, that’s not it.
Return to something more telling.
The grape arbor that summer afternoon in Sedona?
The white sandy beach in a cove off the tip of Provincetown?
What about that walk through the snow?
Ducking into a small bistro to get out of the rain?
Now you’ve become a twitching hyperbolic saint
dispensing Pez to the polloi.
More retelling.
It was here before you.
These fields of dreams, these homes, these people.
You managed to botch the last still life
and you’re still in the game.
But that’s the name of the game, isn’t it?
Your soul – did I say soul? – wasn’t into it.
Nor was your body.
You were shortchanged, but nonetheless you pocketed the coins
and smiled into the camera.
Fancy that!

Ivan Efimov

Once Removed

I was distinguished at twenty and lost consciousness at eight.
The story unfolded despite my efforts.
I was left alone without provisions.
After a while, a pram approached.
I climbed aboard and rode to the end of the line.
Several custodians applied for the position
which was surprisingly faceted.
It took me quite a while to figure things out.
There's no U-turning here, you know.
If pressed, several would have made the same choice.
What could I have done?
I was tempting fate but in the wee hours who doesn't?
The coursework of course helped
as one would have expected
and besides I had plenty of time
to hone my skills and shop for groceries.
The margins were drawn in bold colors
which made the whole thing somewhat tolerable.
Without proper footwear, I would not have made it.
But here I am, as singular as ever, happy as a tribe.
You should have seen the expression.
 

Chair Once Removed  by John Trefethen

 

Exultation

You wake early
with the first slant rays
with the first faint chirping
with the quiet hum of the fan
and you lie there
for a moment
and let daybreak
wash over you
slowly
slowly
before you reach for the book
that slipped
late last night
from your tired hands.

My Favorite Chef

          for Catharine McHugh

Even in my dreams
I cannot prepare dishes
as tasty
as my favorite chef's.
She knows the soul
of food
and the landscape
of the table
and the secret
of preparing culinary gifts
with magic hands.


The Little Pastry Chef  by Tom Corrado



From: A History of the World in Four-Line Feeds: Part 18.3

A stretch limo.
A what?
He left in a stretch limo.
I’ve been accused of channel surfing

and biting my nails.
And worse.
Worse?
I’ve been accused of stink eye.

Stink eye?
Yes, stink eye.
I’d like seconds if I may.
We don’t have time.

Look in the clock!
The clock?
The clock.
Look in the clock!

The Hardy Boys.
Who?
The Hardy Boys.
While the Clock Ticked.

I had the whole series – all 190 original mysteries.
Yes, and?
A connection.
How so?

Pass the daguerreotypes, please.
We need all the help we can get.
Holmes and Watson.
221B.

Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.
My favorites!
Did something happen
at the fork in the road?

Was a CIA graduate involved?
Will we ever know?
Wait. There are voices in the walls.
What?

Voices in the walls.
Listen.
Is this as it should be
or as it should have been?

I have no idea.
Did I say something to upend you?
I don’t think so.
Just keep reading the book

from sea to shining sea.
It's all there:
all the questions,
all the answers.

A team of horses.
Where?
A team of horses
cantering through the afternoon.

Ladies and gentlemen!
Hedge your investments!
No cab awaits your departure.
No bell ends the round.

The season has changed.
The community room has been repainted
for incoming Freshmen
ill-formed products of texting

truncated, housebroken.
Laden with knock-offs?
Gloomier than Milton.
Idols of the kings and queens of darkness.

Last night, a woman appeared in my dream.
Barcode tattooed to her cheek.
Kindle embedded in her thigh.
Hijacked with wonder and glitz.

I was entranced.
She was trying to tell me something.
Something about the old neighborhood.
What?

A vase of delphiniums on the table.
My mother climbing the stairs.
The hiss of the stove.
Kukla Fran and Ollie!

You can’t go home again!
Why?
Edits, redos, rehabs, regrets!
I warned you!

Time for another patdown.
Already?
If they want to, they will.
You know it as well as I.

Yes, but what about escape?
Not a chance.
But it’s worked for some.
Name one.

I can’t right now.
But I know I know.
All glory is fleeting.
Huh?

George C.
It was here. The battlefield was here.
Stop it!
Your memories will collect dust.

Irregularities will intrude.
Wrong numbers.
Misplacements.
Things will fade.

Become sepia’d.
Do I have a choice?
None.
The clock is relentless.

Near Paradox

The road signs up here
remind me of the Burma Shave posts
of forty years ago

flicking out words
a few at a time
giving the edge

to speed readers
and slow drivers.
And the residents too

in their clapboards
with indoor plumbing
looking up

from their board games
bewildered
hoping perhaps

that their ship
has come in
and maybe it has

or soon will
who's to say?
And the landscape too

in layers of snow
mute testimony
to nature's muscle.

One can imagine
a post office here
with an elderly postmistress

plying townsfolk
with freshly-baked oatmeal cookies
presented in a floral tin

with smiles
and small talk
a squeaky clothesline

with frayed undergarments
stiff
from the cold night air.

Strange Evening #4

Did you wait for that strange evening
to ask for your forgiveness
with the remedy locked
in the medicine cabinet
with sides the color of rust?
This will be the last time
you search for the missing piece
from the Erector Set
you hid in the basement
after a stranger told you
he knew the color of hiding places.

Casanova

with daybreak
his gaze shifts
from her nipples
to the mole
in the small of her back
to her thick thighs
protruding anklebone
to the window
and the swans
circling
in the distance

I Am My Own Best/Worst ___

Wait. I don’t want to start like this.
Too late. We’re rolling.

A tall-masted ship tumbling into view.

I think it was called My Best Friend.

We cannot go on meeting like this.
Too much wasted.
I’m rather set in my ways.
Besides, I’ve got to get to the supermarket.

Interviews with incidental individuals?

Secular souls from the pages of then.

Your iPhone is on autofill
but, I must admit, your comeuppance is rather charming.

I wish I had the wherewithal to capture the moment.
It is the moment that matters, isn’t it?

With a CV like that how can you go?
Where?
Where what?

A dress code for the 20-teens.

Shouldn’t be much of a problem to clear the decks.
And begin anew?
Perhaps.
Do you think her credentials are impressive?
Unless they’ve changed.
So, is that a yes?

I have tall ships on the brain.
No idea why.
Landlubber-of-the-year here.

I was accosted by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was overwhelmed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was unimpressed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was undertaken by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was scrutinized by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was transformed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was teased by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was caressed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was shortchanged by the labyrinth of his/her words.

There were so many cheap shots in aisle 7
I ran hyperventilating from the store and back to the library carrel
where I had left my spiral notebook of

A. jottings
B. scribbles
C. bread crumbs
D. breaths
E. regrets
G. sketches
H. fantasies
I. all of these
J. some of these
K. none of these

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

After a Run, At Bruegger’s

We inhabit our delusions
dumbly fueled by the run
squirreling-away fantasies
with the perseverance
of rare book collectors
redeeming them
when the weather report
jolts us out of our haze.
We think we can pump iron
with the best
and in the silence of our bathrooms
tick off aging’s onslaught
applying elixirs
to best all mind’s comers
and convince ourselves
that we can entertain
any invitation
any departure
squinting with all our might
at the long-legged shoppers
as we suck in our stomachs
sip the house blend
and smile through the remainder
of our crooked yellowing teeth.

Circus

The circus was in town last week.
There were jugglers and acrobats
a bearded fat lady
a thin man with tattoos
a woman who sold spider webs
a gap-toothed giant in a baseball uniform.
He rode around in a little car
and handed out fortune cookies to kids.
There were plenty of things to do -
rides, cotton candy, candy apples
and goldfish in tumblers.
The goldfish recited nursery rhymes
to the tune of a tuba
suspended in mid-air
by the wave of a magician's wand.
Even the Siamese twins brightened
at the thought of someone's hand
being quicker than the eye.
The elephants giggled
and rode the Ferris wheel
around and around.
Everyone guessed everyone else's weight.
There were lines a mile long
for the fortune teller
who used an enormous deck of cards
to tell fortunes.
She had only one good eye
and wore a bandana.
She spoke with an accent.
It was hard to understand her.
In the evening, fireworks lit up the sky.
We could see ourselves in the Fun House mirrors.
A sword swallower handed out
free passes to a midnight show
called Midnight with the Clowns.
It was fun while it lasted.

Blackberries

When I lived closer I'd keep things cleaner,
weeding the bushes every now and then.

I had this pair of blue coveralls -
Frank sewn in red over the left pocket,

the name of my friend's father,
who repaired radiators

till the acid ate his lungs.
I'd pull on the coveralls,

wade into the blackberry bushes
and pick away, protected.

I've stopped by again today
to see how my father's doing.

It's August and he's eighty-six.
He's asked for some blackberries,

so I'm out here, in shirt and tie,
picking.

By the Same Token

And by the same token
with eyes locked on smudgy newsprint

we take the subway to the Botanical Garden
in Brooklyn

where fish, golden, a few white
and turtles, two, three, four

surface to the pleasure of onlookers
mostly out-of-towners

who later will face traffic jams
and late night return trips

on lonely upstate two-lanes
nodding off despite the blathering FM

and arrive victorious
this time at least

but now for a few hours
shifting gears

to enjoy this overcast, drippy day
among the nametagged greeneries

with their guileless choreography
and faintly Mendelian humor.

House

I would climb the wooden stairs to the attic
where I had set up the porch glider
I'd found in the basement
with its flaked pea-green paint
and vinyl cushions covered with cotton sheets
and sit there
and read
and write
and doze
sometimes in eighty-five degree heat.
From there I could see
the garage and blacksmith shop
chicken coop, grape arbor
flower and vegetable gardens.
From there I could keep things
in perspective.
That place was whatever I wanted it to be
and it stayed that way
through my fiftieth year
when the things that change with time changed
and I sold it
with its pocketfuls of memories.

Screwdriver

I keep a tiny screwdriver
shorter than a thumb
in a wooden cigar box
on the dresser
in my bedroom.
I use it to tighten the screws
on my glasses
when they get loose
which I usually notice
while shaving
or brushing my teeth
in the morning
which is why
I keep it in the bedroom.
I've been keeping it there
for about forty years now.
If friends or relatives
were to find the tiny screwdriver
in the wooden cigar box
they'd think nothing of it
or maybe assume
it got there by chance
like the patterns of leaves
on a sidewalk.
But they'd be wrong.
It's there for a reason.
And when that reason comes along
I reach in
take out the tiny screwdriver
and tighten the screws.
No rummaging around.
No wondering where I'd left it.
Just reach in and take it out.
Simple as that.

Sharpener

And with the overcast day comes second grade,
50-plus years ago, lined with marble
composition tablets, its wood and wrought-iron desks
bolted in tandem to the floor,
mimicking the lockstep lessons
dispensed with religious fervor
by the sisters of St. Felicia -
full habits hiding thick red hair.
A pencil sharpener sits on the window sill.
It was either there,
a few steps to the sharpener with a #2
or a trip, following interrogation -
the urgency of the request signified
by holding one's crotch
first with one hand then with both
while rocking back and forth -
to relieve oneself in the boys' room,
the walk back through the cavernous halls
as slow as a dead man's.
This morning I am at the pencil sharpener,
shortening in slow motion a yellow hexagonal Ticonderoga,
dreaming about a stream filled with brookies,
scales glistening in the wet sun,
while looking out at the cemetery across the street
where the dearly departed, engaged in board games,
await the final roll call.

Strange Evening #3

Did you wait for that strange evening
to rehearse your regrets
to mix them with pigment
and paint them out of the picture?
The old man at the door
says he knows you.
He's waiting in the living room
where circus clowns have gathered
to compare notes.
Your mother and father
are there too, dressed down,
as you will always remember them.
The smiles on their faces
cast shadows which the clowns
will use in their act. Why continue
looking through the phonebook
when you know they've all moved away?
When you know they don't want to
hear from you ever again?

After

after we'd eaten Big Macs at Mickey D's
after we'd entered a hard hat zone
after we'd picked up smokes at 7-Eleven
after we were born again
after we'd decided to take stock
          and reinvent ourselves
after the leasers coasted onto the breakdown lane
          with their Support Our Troops magnets
          clinging to their backsides
after mysterious lights welled up from the mud
          and shortstops stopped short
after the game went into extra innings
after gas guzzlers quit guzzling
          and car pools dried up
after kids were bused to school
          and school bus drivers recited by heart
          lines from Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
after kids were busted for just saying YES
after your best friend did a line and died
after the keynoter lost the keys to the Magic Kingdom
after we'd decided to cash in our markers
after migrant workers skipped town
          and wait staff took extended coffee breaks
          and kept customers waiting
after the days dwindled down to a precious few
after the black cloud went in for a repaint
after porn stars burned their toys
          and buffalo soldiers moved to Newark
after the rain
after she lost her crayons
          and began coloring with her fingers
after the thrill was gone
after it was once upon a time
after poets left the country trailing lines
          more obscure than Fermat's Theorem
after we'd listened to the music of the trees
          and translated lines from brother squirrel
after we had finished
after we'd trampled the unsuspecting
after the lights went out
          and clowns arrived with an EMT
after we'd taken our second cousin out for a bite to eat
          and closed the diner
after we were admitted
after we were committed
after we were convinced
          and encouraged
          and discouraged
after we were sentenced
after we were cut off
          and cut short
after the true meaning continued to elude us
after we'd thought it best to dismantle the pyramids
          put away the folding chairs
          the prize winning origami displays
          the maps of famous battle sites
          the flags
after we'd googled the names of the founding fathers
          and The Shining
after the seven wonders of the ancient world packed it in
after we'd had a brush with the law
          and a tete-a-tete with a door-to-door Fuller brush salesman
after we'd taken up a collection for the victim of a downsize
after we'd taken up with the neighborhood vegan
          and started from scratch
after we'd attended a party of the first part
after we'd gone back to square one
          and the terrible twos
          and Three's Company
          and the four seasons
          and five days off for good behavior
after the air traffic controller called us mid-flight
after we'd buried the dead
          and decided to devote our lives to Magic Squares
after we'd finished the assignment
          and the lesson plan
          the makeover
          the takeover
          the book report
          the annual report
          the remodeling project
after we'd counted the body bags
          and the spent shell casings
          and the empties
          and the atrocities
          and the lies
after we'd counted on one another for support
after we'd banged the drum slowly
after we'd thought it was finally over
          and the credits began to roll
          and the lights were turning up
          and the doors were opening
          the sun was shining
          the fat lady was singing
after

August

My older daughter
with her newly-pierced navel
and her friend
also newly-pierced
move down the beach
to watch the surfers.
My younger daughter
and her friend
tethered to boogie boards
high step the waves
between the two
lifeguard stations.
Big-wheeled baby strollers
skirt the edge of the water.
Dogs yap.
A biplane announces Happy Hour.
Mothers, two-pieced
and colorful, pass,
as the tide continues
its relentless advance.

Dry Run

As atwitter as redwing blackbirds
who can be quite ornery
not unlike certain custodians
of the public trust
who spend their days clipboarded in cubicles
awaiting the final tolling of retirement,
or those on the edge of the Great Abyss
who have overstayed their welcome
and their common sense
and pine for the good old days
with its handwoven tapestries
and wrought iron walkways,
are those who re-enter the fray each day
in real time no less
on the launch pad of life
for the long haul across the Great Divide
and into the homes of millions of reviewers
who have paid their dues
to say nothing of their cable bill
and are no doubt fully aware
of what awaits them around the bend in the river
with of course a fine print coda
spelling out in no uncertain terms
the 100 percent no-questions-asked-money-back-guarantee,
as if that really mattered.


Klaus Kinski in Fitzcarraldo (1982)

Break It Down

The occupant lives under the bed
nibbling at his love.
She continues to sort things out
trying to make it happen
trying to make ends meet.
Her education will come in handy.
The shell game however is over
the pea has been let go.
The sun is a sweet machine
making it a good day
to take some time off
before hiring oneself out
to the mattress company.
The classifieds bark
urging passersby to take stock
to find that certain someone.
Phoning home is a dead deal.
There's no one there.
The boxes stand in the hallway
videotaped, awaiting
the U-Haul stuck in traffic.
The rooms weep their emptiness
except the upstairs bedroom
where a few late-night intimacies
cower in the corner.

Francesca Woodman

It's August, and the Ponies are Running

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my better judgment,
my better half, my worse half, my other half;
they're running away with my vacation, my vocation;
with my kids' education, my salutation, my edification;

they're running away with the plump-lipped waitress
in her too-tight uniform, in her too-short uniform,
in her tu-tu uniform;
they're running away with the short-order cook,
the dishwasher, the window washer, the windshield washer,
the loud customers, the cleavagers, the spin doctors.

It's August, and the ponies are running away
with my expectations, my aspirations, my inclinations;
with my best intentions, my worst nightmares;
with the free tees and handicappers,
with the gamblers, the scramblers, the midnight ramblers;

they're running away with the long shots,
the long run, the long ball, the long haul, the big fall;
with the potheads, the potholes,
the hotties with their rubberneckers,
the one-armed bandits and double-deckers,
the card sharks, the loan sharks, the great white sharks;
with the stacked decks and pole vaulters,
the pole sitters and baby sitters;

The ponies are running away with the weary travelers,
the thirst quenchers, the road crew bosses
and time-and-a-halfers;
with the running-on-empties, and pies-in-the-sky,
with the local history buffs and their jaundiced eye;

they're running away with the landscape,
the cityscape, the seascape, the escapees, the APBs;
the trees lining the tertiaries, the estuaries,
the innocent bystanders, the indigents,
the passersby, the groupies, the roadies, the loners;
with the home-schooled and home-brewed;
they're running away with the motley-crewed.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with the one-tricks, the two cents,
the three blind mice, the four horsemen;
with the squanderers, the wanderers
the hangers-on, the barflies, the right wingers,
the left wingers, the middle-of-the-roaders, the Debra Wingers;
with the know-it-alls and straight shooters,
the forked tonguers, the mixers and remixers, the mixmasters.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my severance pay, my brand new day,
my May day, my getaway, my AOK, my here-to-stay,
my hip hip hooray, my final say.

It's August, and the ponies are running.