He digs into his wallet. Hands over a $20 bill. God bless you, she says. But where's the god for lost girls in a squalling storm? She turns to go back into the Taco Bell. He shuts off his car. Gets out. Do you have a phone? No. She says. Anyone at all to call?
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I think that I shall never see, a tree sermon lovely as this one by some trees. A video-poem in honor of Easter Sunday for those of us without Easter bonnets.
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Five short poems to consume on the run: 'A Poem About All Poems About Trees'; 'Something for Nothing'; 'Platitude-lessness' (brief, but essential writing advice!); 'Mission Statement' and 'Wait a Moment'
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I toil mostly in obscurity. But which writer does not? / Except for those few who are feted, adored, and / lifted so high. Until they pass from favor & are knocked / back to the second-rank, never to return to / the heights from which they sipped / the better champagnes ...
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I could be the man the boy / dreamed of being. I could be the / boy the man dreams of remembering. / I could be the man who saved his mother. / I could be the man who fought his father, / who finally and everlastingly / thrummed some sense into / that thick Latinate, hot-blooded, / black-haired head…
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Who, pray tell, / was Mr. Brainwash? / Did Andy Warhol know? / These questions / agitate my head, as / my light goes red to green ...
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It is a forgetting, for one. / Dissolution into physical bliss, / which, as the head is so troubled, / so often, feels like a blessing ...
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I am walking past the multi-culti shops and through the lively streets of Ann Arbor after dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant, living the good life. What's that flyer say? 'Open Mic Poetry'? And it's tonight?!
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What can I say? Sometimes, you just have to write a haiku about the Dollar Store. They should sell it there. For a dollar.
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Dots of satellites, / slow-moving stars / high high overhead, / always circling the / marble of the earth, / pass by well past / midnight, far above / the push-up Appalachians ...
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It is lovely here, this place you call the past, / but which is my present. We meet in the middle, / upon this bridge of words ...
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We prance across the floor & close / the space. Until I see your back to me, those hips, an intoxicating / whiff of shampoo, the outline of your lips, an accidental touch, / matched rhythms, yes, our bodies talking on a wavelength our / minds cannot access ...
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Sometimes, you gotta go short, instead of long. A sampling of short poems and epigrams in advance of an autumnal reading amid the West Virginia trees.
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'I think that I cannot be killed, / that my work is incomplete, / my dreams / not yet completely manifested … / Why do we think this way?'
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When the azaleas burst into bloom around a Buddha given me by a dear, departed, harmonic soulmate, it was time to set her memorial song to imagery of the green, green hills of Earthh ...
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