poem

 Pecking My Own Reflection

I promise when I die

I’ll linger, nearby,

For a few moments

As long as I can 

So you’re not alone

When you’re finally all alone.

Somehow I’ll find a way

To let you know I’m there—

The dog will bark

At a ghost on the porch,

A door will slam 

Without the wind, 

Your phone will ring

But no one answers.

That strange bird will start pecking

His own reflection again in the back window.

Whatever it is, we’ll agree 

That it’s me,

Some last expiring 

Essence of me

Letting you know

I’ve arrived

And everything’s fine. 

But that will be it.

Last acts are singular and necessarily brief.

The next time your phone

Rings there will be an actual voice

Offering soft condolences. 

The next door that slams

Will be from the force of your own grief. 

But for five minutes or two minutes

Or 30 seconds or three

Whatever you hear

When I’ve finally passed

Will be the last of me. 

The rest is necessary silence.

Those are the rules, I’m sorry to say.

You'll have to imagine me on the other side

Listening for the sound you make

When you arrive.

4/22/25

poem

 Birthday

In the old days when the earth was flat

You could only walk so far until

You fell off the ledge

But that never happened.

If you ever got too close

The gods would strike 

You down with a thunderbolt

Or turn you into a goat.

We used to follow a lunar calendar.

My birthday was always two weeks after

The first half moon of the vernal equinox

But as time went on it got

Too complicated to remember.

People lost their literacy of the skies

Even I forgot I was still alive.

So now every fourth sunny day in April

I whisper my wish to the wind

And wait for the dogwoods to flash pink and white

Like thousands of candles on a birthday cake

4/22/25

poem

 States of Matter

There are actually more than three states of matter

I had no idea until recently

There’s even one called degenerate matter

Which depends on the Pauli exclusion principle

And unimaginable magnitudes of quantum pressure

We all know solid, liquid, gas—

Best illustrated by the H2O trichotomy

Of water, vapor and ice

But it applies to everything else.

Most of our world is frozen

If you really think about it

(Which I do, way too much)

All this bedrock upon which

We stand and erect a world 

Once ran rampant as molten lavas.

Anything now liquid had to be melted

Which makes one wonder 

If blood was once smelted

From ancient ores of the gods 

And poured in the molds of our veins.

The gases are a breed apart, like thinking,

Odorless and invisible we forget 

How completely they have us surrounded

And never leave us alone. 

One way to keep it straight

Is to think of time as the liquid

Metronomically lapping against our shores

Stripping away fragments of us 

Every time it hits.

Instantaneous moments are the solids

Pausing long enough for us to touch 

And love is the invisible ether 

We all become when molecules

Heat up and rattle around inside our cages.

Human beings, famously, are a mixture

Of all three, spiced 

With a dash of degeneracy

4/9/25

poem

 We Real Cool

Everyone is cool is various ways

In all the ways I wish I were.

The one cool thing I do has already

Been done a thousand times

By people you would never think 

Are actually cool, like Bronk.

I wanted to be cool in all the ways

And that was the source of my frustration. 

I wanted all the funny lines 

And for all the girls to think

That every poem was only about them.

What’s the word for someone like that?

In reality all I want is for you 

To pull up a chair and chat

Until the sun forgets to rise.

By the time we’re sharing a plate

Of microwaved pancakes

With fake butter and sugar free syrup

I’m reading koans from the Gateless Gate 

And as happy as I’d ever hoped to be 

Which isn’t saying much

But your ramshackle laugh is enough

To let me let go

Of the book 

And hold your hand 

And lead you down the hall

To a stone bed

Where loneliness persists

As a work of performance art

We both find incredibly cool

4/19/25

poem

 The Great Ship

Many obsess over 

The vessel that brought us

How it leaves without us

How it never comes back 

Sleepless nights 

pondering its provenance 

Wondering why it came—

Routine delivery or rescue mission

In the middle of the night,

An extrication of innocents

From a place far worse. 

Others are more concerned with the vessel 

That will take them away from here.

Their metaphor for the meaning of life becomes:

 the search for the great ship!

Which, if found, flips the script

And transforms a forlorn story of a child 

Abandoned, forgotten, now trapped

On a silent spinning rock

Into an epic tale of escape and redemption

Ending with a return to hazily remembered home

Or deliverance to the unimaginable land

            Originally intended.

Soon it becomes apparent that no ship is coming

And so they try to make their own

Which proves to be a challenge. 

A desperate scavenging for raw materials ensues—

Scraps of wood and wire, tar and resin 

Bones and hair, blood and sweat,

Suffering and love

Hatred and vengeance 

Listing and leaking and sinking

Scuttling on the shallows offshore.

The ship becomes a boat becomes a raft,

Not even seaworthy by the end, 

Washed up on an empty beach—

A bed on the sand

As waves crash over them

I won't be building a ship, myself.

I’ve seen so many in ruins

I try to keep things simple.

This place is what I know 

And all I will ever know.

I’m incurious of the circumstances 

Of my arrival 

Or what happens when it’s over. 

Sprinkle my ashes in the grasses

Of wide windy meadows 

Land locked in the vast interior

Of this old continent.

Wait for a sunny day in autumn, please, 

Some place where you can see the mountains 

And feel a chilly afternoon breeze—

I have never really cared for the sea.

4/19/25

poem

 The Investor

I heavily invested, fairly early on, in an unknown company that manufactured something utterly banal but essential. Not that I’m some genius. Some card shark who knows everyone’s tell. There were other companies that made the exact same thing. Everyone knew it had to sell. The demand seemed limitless. I didn’t care about the competition. After all, there are lots of toilet paper and breakfast cereal brands and they all do fine. None of them ever fails. Not like a pizza joint or a love affair begun under the influence of infinite transcendence. That was my disposition— a tendency toward the sure thing over the spectacular pay off. I was what is known as a smart investor. If forced to play roulette, half went on black, half went on red while I always kept a little behind to cover the vig. I didn’t believe in bubbles and downturns were just the term for the end of every love song. I don't even buy the things I’ve leveraged my life on. Whatever’s on sale, I guess. It’s best not to get too emotionally involved. Don’t let someone else’s jackpot instill feelings of doubt. Trust the process. All your losses will even out.

4/6/25

poem

 The Immigrant

No, my papers are not in order. I have no right to be here. I was born in another country far beyond these borders. I am not a citizen. I cannot vote for change. I am a refugee from a land I’ve never left. A transient interloper politely asked to please move on. A shadowy figure on the edge of the scene who makes everyone nervous. I have been evicted, deported, delivered to lowest bidders. I have no right, under auspices of the language of law, to question my strictly defined disposition. My freedoms are restricted. My days consist of making the rounds on my P.O. boxes in various post offices to see if, for once, I have received any mail informing me of a positive change in my legal status. One day there was a certified letter. It was a summons but the name on the form was someone else’s. It was starting to happen. Even this inner sanctum of private delusion was occupied by aliens. 

4/6/25

poem

 Russian Doll

Nothing I do is my own

I’ve always just copied everyone else

Down to my accent, gestures and laugh

If you peek inside, there’s nothing there.

I made the mistake once of looking

Deep down and it was like an elaborate

Matryoshka doll trick a mean uncle 

Plays on you for your birthday.

Each box I opened contained a smaller one

And then a smaller one, you get the idea.

The last box, the smallest one, came 

Wrapped in glossy gold paper

As light as any professed faith. 

I hesitated before tearing it open

Feeling the hot snarl of his eyes

As he watched across the room 

Only to find it bone empty

Like a plundered Egyptian tomb.

Alas, this was the great trauma of my life

And I didn’t want anyone to know

So I closed it tight and thanked him

For his kindness and stowed it away

In the attic 

With all the old ribbons and dusty trophies.

Afterward I began to steal from others

All the things I liked

And gave them away as gifts.

Every box had something in it

And if they didn’t like it, fine,

It wasn’t even mine. 

4/6/25

poem

 The Best Thing

What if the best thing you ever did

Was a poem that, once finished,

You had to give away

Or was taken 

By whomever claimed it?

This isn’t it— don’t get excited.

All these words so far don’t count.

This isn’t the poem I was talking about.

The poem I am talking about

Lives in the recesses of unfinished

Sanctuaries where the hunted

Crouch behind blocks of broken granite.

No one thinks to look for it there

Which is why it feels so safe.

But that’s only a transition stage.

The one who knows it best 

Seizes it 

And carries it away to her lair

Where she finishes it and signs it

With a mashup of their names.

The AP wire service picks it up

And publishes it online 

Under the unverifiable byline

And it quickly goes viral.

It’s fair to say the whole world reads it

Not because they have to or want to

But because if you’ve made it this far

That's what you do. 

4/1/25