when my fingers won’t move briskly
I’m in the mood but lacking whisky

the summer night is super sticky
too fast to stop, too slow for quickie

the fan blows soft at the back of my head
something I love — sweet and strong — has fled

and through the blind, and bugged pane, a tiny light
tells me nothing’s right

this is how I free up time
to make a silly, frozen rhyme

4 numbers

4 numbers:

150,000 miles
31 marriage years
55 hip years
9 dog years

a soft light against a puddle
a woman aims a car
peace pulled from night
we turn around

2012 — a dozen years

The years seem not to be plenty
Since they started beginning with twenty.

The kids were kids. Now they’re grown.
Clinton was Prez; Sarah Palin unknown.

And here we are, about to delve
Into the year twenty twelve.

If a dozen years can go that quick
Maybe time and space are just a trick.

Birthday Poem

If one is lucky enough to thrive
He will, one day, reach fifty-five.

It’s just a number, nothing more
With senior discounts — galore!

Ten percent off at the Greasy Spoon
Every Monday and Tuesday afternoon!

Buy two coffees, get one free
(Also available for hot or iced tea).

Celebrate celebrate celebrate!
Five dollars off at Motel 8!

And if all that doesn’t win the day
Medicare is just a few years away…

Such a birthday might not be funny
Without saving all that money.

talk in the night

in every place that holds a comb
a toothbrush
a roll of tape
or even grapes newly washed

a person takes a stand
hears the sounds of the night

a bird way out there
calls another
over there
way over there
lets me hear
the conversation

one of them shouts the steady talk
the other answers
a quick chirp
just enough to validate

both together tell me
that if I empty out
what’s inside
all the earthy material
in my gut
their calls can heal anything

inelegant math

fractions blow my mind
like one half of a blow
or two thirds of a mind
make how many hearts?

who knows
who cares

after all
it’s just division
taking a thing
and slicing it into parts
so that each new thing
is a new thing
and the whole thing
no longer exists

isn’t this why the heart
is part of the mind
is part of the whole

nothing to do with blood
or skin or tissue but
something else that
reaches out and gets real
only in the eye
of another



the only way
to make things work
is just to say
I’ve been a jerk

so crass
swimming in the sewer
a big ass
a serial arguer

then comes a day
of open space
a new play
a little grace

this box

this box
is one that lifts itself
carries itself
knows what’s inside
something living
a form that breathes
and stretches
moves with folds
speaks like loose cardboard
in a breeze
sits by the curb
waits to be crushed
and carried away

the things we think

water finds a space
wherever it goes
in this body
or outside it

even in fire
if you listen hard
you can hear
the water leaving

like something from
another life
another place
that is just like this place
but disappearing

these are the things
we think we want
we think we are looking for
we think might have