Thursday, October 24, 2024

poem

 The Real Writer

The real writer knows that every true sentence

He gets down on paper is part of a long

Erasure. 


By the time he is an old man there is nearly 

Nothing left.

Who wrote all that? someone asks


And he can only shrug

Blissfully unaware of all those lonesome nights 

Of frustrated yearning and sullen labor.


His forgetfulness is his last fact. 


He has emptied himself of all history and feeling 

Now, and only now, is he able to receive everything

In its purest, most forgivable form.


It passes right through him 

Like wind through an old tire 

Hanging from a low limb



10/24/24

Tuesday, October 15, 2024

poem

October

October clouds piled high

like down comforters

blocking rumors of sun and sky


A fall chill seeps through cracks 

in casement windows

someone forgot to seal 


Strange blankets

stored in dank closets

for days like these


But too high to reach

not even with a stool

nothing to do but shiver 


Even worse is the mid afternoon

dispersal when the proven fact

of sun clears the last veil of vapors 


Cloudless, infinite sky

suddenly unceilinged.

to look up is dizzying


a vertigo of the already fallen

seeing for the first time

                     the extent of the fall

10/15/24


poem

 Venous Return

Anytime I get lost I just find a vein

On your arm and follow it back

To your heart 


Arteries are paths for skeleton pirates

To tote their treasures downriver

Deep into the hungry dark forest


At the end of the line

Everything is unloaded 

From the front cargo hold


Even the stowaways 

Are cast onto shore

Never to be seen again


10/15/24

poem

 Catching Cold

It’s sleeting outside but 

I slant through the slashing

Slivers of ice unscathed 


An old woman is waiting inside 

Saying you’ll catch the death of you

As she hands me a heavy blanket


Which renews a lapsed hope.

Till then I’d assumed

That death was already here


Lying fallow in a nerve root

Like a dormant virus

Patiently waiting to reappear


As a painful red rash

Lashed across my back 

When I’m old and frail.


So I took it as a challenge

And made a game of it

Because games can be won.


I dropped the blanket and dashed outside

Where the sleet had turned to snow

And I raced the flakes for the ground


10/15/24

Monday, October 14, 2024

poem

 The Gift of Maps

There is a reason men like maps—

A man with a map is a man with a plan.

He’s on the verge of figuring it all out.

Any kind will do— political, thematic,

Topographic, pornographic, geologic,

Your basic road map.

The room silences watching him carefully unfold 

Accordion creases of Rand McNally’s finest

Across the span of the dining room table.

The look on his face is arcade enlightenment.

Rest assured, Dad will find the fastest route.


We all cling to the first map we ever got 

From way back when we were boys.

Usually it was a gift

From someone who loved us 

In lieu of a simpler love. 

My boy is in the process

Of getting one from me.

Of course he might not use it;

I would never force him to.

He may find another way to get

Where he thinks he needs to go. 

But it's nice to have a map

When you’re first starting out,

To see where you are and what’s ahead—

Landmarks to look out for,

Contingency detours in case 

Of heavy traffic or natural disaster. 


I still have mine

Folded up and tucked away 

In the secret drawer of my heart.

Every now and then I open it up

To remind myself of the beginning

And how I found my way out. 

It’s strange to look at it now—

Crude etchings of hills and rivers,

Verdant valleys and curving roads

All colored in crayon

Annotated in the wobbly hand

Of a child. Then I remember

I was never actually gifted one 

Like all the other boys—

I had to make my own.


10/14/24

Monday, October 7, 2024

poem

 Jigsaw Puzzle

Now we are a jigsaw puzzle 

With all its pieces

Sealed in the box.

Everything is there

Nothing is lost

It has no corners

But all of the colors

And no one knows 

What scene it will show 

When we’re done.

Are you ready to start?


10/7/24

poem

 The Beach

The lovers, once they’ve found 

One another, and not before,

Find their way to the shore

Because the beach 

Belongs to neither the sea

Nor the land

Though it partakes of each. 

Then a long walk holding hands 

On smoothed gray sand

Where waves collapse 

And anoint our crimsoned feet.

Here, in this middle place

Where we cannot drown 

Nor put any roots down

We walk. We breathe. We live.

Here, something is just beginning

Or finally ending, pending one's perspective.

It’s the one place where everything 

We’ve ever wanted is one step away

Even as it all recedes from us.

So we saunter on

As if our lives depended on it 

As far as the shore will take us

Turning neither right nor left

Neither land nor sea 

Lost in the certainty

Of this seam of reality

That is neither one nor two

No longer me

But not quite you.


10/7/24

poem

 A Choice

The worst thing that can happen with nice

Is performative or platitudinous

But mean easily calcifies into habitual 

Thoughtlessness, grinding down molars 

Until it’s just another meat

You have to learn to chew.


If you’re going to be nice

Be nice and mean it.

Use your grown up voice.

And if you’re going to be mean

Do it once

And regret it.

Or don’t.

Which was the first time

Anyone ever noticed

You could be mean 

Or you could be nice 

That there’s a choice


10/7/24

Saturday, October 5, 2024

poem

 Schrödinger's Cat

We’re all Schrödinger's cat

Waiting in the dark box 

Prisoners of our own fate,

Hoping to be seen,

To know once and for all

If we’re still alive or dead.

It’s not to be taken literally!

The point is about probability!

Say the last holy men on earth.

I say, what about the cat

While it’s waiting,

Does that count as living?

What about the box?

Can it be used again

Once it’s been filled with rot?

Who or what goes in the box next?

What about the guy who checks?

Who’s watching him

When he lifts the lid?


10/5/24

Friday, October 4, 2024

poem

 Janus









The meanings of words can change

Over time. Definitions get lost.

New contexts are gleaned. 

The word “naughty” derives from “naught”,

Or nothing, the absence of anything solid.

From there it’s a short leap to a realm

Utterly devoid of moral principles,

Which softened into a minor

Pejorative for disobedient boys.

“Awful” once suggested awe inspiring.

“Nice” people, long ago, were morons.

“Terrorist” used to be a designation 

For someone wielding violence against

Innocents to advance a political agenda—

Airplane hijackers, snipers and suicide bombers.

But after Fallujah, Gitmo and Gaza

It has also come to mean: anyone 

The good guys can kill

Without pause or regret.

We are the good guys

In this degenerate vocabulary.

The “terrorists” are the ones 

Who deserve to die

When our bombs are dropped.

We decide.
Everyone else must suffer. 

It grants absolution for vengeance,

Serves as useful proxy for erasure,

A whispered pardon from a deep

Voice on the other side of a screen,

A complex word with both noun

And predicative connotations

Where trial, sentencing and final justice

Are implied with mere utterance.

As these things go 

The meaning will continue to evolve.  

Pretty soon it will mean

Nothing at all 


10/4/24

Thursday, October 3, 2024

poem

 Tuesday Morning

Tuesday morning. Driving my daughter to school. Passing the house with the grim reaper mailbox. We stop at Dunkin Donuts. But she doesn’t like chocolate frosted doughnuts with sprinkles anymore. A plain glazed is fine, like she’s some anonymous middle management drone now. She stares at her phone. Hasn’t even taken a bite yet of her donut. What about the math test, I ask, do you want to review a few things before we arrive? No dad, I’m good. But you said you were worried about it, honey. Our eyes catch in the rear view mirror.  Dad


Rather than turning up the music to its previous volume I try again to tell her about the algebra of all bodies, how each of us has some corresponding variable expression that can be plotted on a multidimensional coordinate plane along with dozens of partial differential equations that account for the change that accrues over time. That this equation cannot be solved is beside the point. It is enough to know that very smart people have been working on it for many years and will not stop because it will prove that we are, if not here, then at least somewhere, at one time, for a very short while, in a definite position within an open-ended universe drifting in infinity. To be able to prove this mathematically would actually be very nice. Because math is true. The Hodge Conjecture and Riemann Hypothesis ought to be immediately deprioritized, or at least I would hope so. I see in the rearview mirror that her AirPods are back in her ears and her finger is jack-hammering the volume button like she’s caught in some sort of cruel rat experiment. In any event, it’s only Tuesday. The weekend is a long way off but everything that follows can be graphed. High school graduation. Then college in another state. First apartment. First promotion. Her inevitable marriage to a man who connects with me more than his own father. I only say that because that’s what he tells me. The birth of her first child. Her second. The driftless time after her mother dies. The growing older and lesser. The disillusionment. A half assed acceptance. Even my own death can be plotted with respect to x.    


10/3/24