Choose Life
Signs are auspicious
 Time for harvest
  Descendants to multiply
   Shooting stars light the way
    For a million new born smiles
     Brave be the parents
      Noble be the miracle workers
       All join in celebration

Blanket of Stars

long ago my father caught me praying at bed time “Stop” he ordered, I disobeyed him as he was unaware this was the prayer that could change the world

countless castles have been constructed in my mind they are all in the high mountains
the peaks hover over the parapets
more a part of the sky than the earth far below

a scattershot of meteors flashes across the sky the castles crumble in the daylight hours
my memories of them snap like petrified twigs

the almost blinding whiteness of cumulus clouds set against the cobalt sky, had snagged on the peaks the parapets pierce the fresh fruit of the sky releasing the seeds of light that flower the earth

the thick blanket of stars carry my prayer I lay on my back and stare straight up
to direct more meteors across the heavens

they carry fragments of voices strange distant cries of suffering
my blanket of stars filters the world’s woes catches and holds the torments at bay before they can drift across the earth

Zoe and Nadine
                                                                   I

Zoe and Nadine sit quietly and talk turkey mixing stardust sequins and the spark of life when a red light flashes in Nadine’s brain and another day goes by in Zoe’s life

God of all including the light and black holes visits Zoe in dreams within the night hours Tao the mystical force spinning within radiates Nirvana into Nadine’s meditation

Nadine claims Tao is everywhere and nowhere she knows it as the emptiness in all things
Zoe sees God everywhere except in stillness meanwhile the Buddha is creating parallel worlds

Nadine was once stardust floating in space Zoe watches her come alive in God’s image
then Tao and Karma dance with God and Nirvana
the two sip sunshine cocktails as the singular moon sets

                                                                   II

a drone drops board games on the curb
two cats scratch out a stalemate in feline chess rain’s patter plays a timpani shower song voices lick their ears with a whisper

a lone barge announces itself with a foghorn cry like a long lost dinosaur trolling the mists
for a soulmate that will never come across the sound there is only silence

Tao soaks up the divine essence of the ordinary dawn drizzles steam onto the path to temptation it rises to coat the roof of heaven
God fills the vessels with the essence of forever

tear-shaped drops of rain fall on Nadine and Zoe explode like water balloons filled with sea water their minds meld together in a bottomless well Tao shares the secret of the origin of the stars

Yossele the Golem

my creator pulled me from the clay
summoned me from out of the high banks
of the Vltava River to protect the ghetto

the Maharal’s cane drew my form in the mud
a minyan of elders convened encircled me
recited incantations from the Zohar

their voices gave me a life
teeth hair nails eyes I awoke
smelling of scorched earth I blazed

with the strength of a mighty furnace
a giant form a hulking lump of coal
not of the living

my name is Golem
I do not breathe or bleed
I feel no pain know no remorse

I came from nothingness and I go to nothingness

if I show anger or hatred
I will be returned to the earth
turned back into gravel and stone

but unbidden emotion stalks me
I break the neck of the man
whose carriage killed

a young maiden
I watched her suffer
I felt an ache I should not feel

I took revenge as humans do
I stood in judgement and delivered
punishment with no memory of my purpose

the Maharal sees me calls out to me
Yossele, now you are a danger to us
you were meant to protect the people of Prague

I can no longer be among the living
it is my time to be returned to the earth
to the dust to an absence of feeling to the end of emotion

I came from nothingness and I go to nothingness

Salt Magic

a disheveled old man emerges from the shadows
underneath the awning of Oakley’s Barber Shop

I worked in the salt mines for 40 years
he pours salt from a rusted tin can and rants

I’m in a hurry on my way to a haircut and a beard trim
but he accosts me harangues me will not let me pass

this is the salt that flavors your food
I study the small white pile he has poured in my path

he’s tall and gaunt with unwieldy whiskers
that surround his face like a sunflower

pay me now or I will use its power to bring danger upon you
maybe he needs a haircut too I reason

I reach into my pocket pull out a small purse filled with coins
here are pieces of silver I say use them wisely
I walk on but hear him begin the same riff on a new patsy
who waves him off and pushes forward to the curb and the crosswalk

I look up to see the old man wink at me

as a bus appears out of nowhere
he who did not pay is no more

Life and Death are Born Together

birth
is a cry of bliss

life
is a time of wonder

death
is an end of beginning

immortality
is limitless unborn eternal

Tao
is hidden yet shines

Now We Are Four

I once was a fire boy
with afire helmet and ax
mom and dad and I
were Fire company #1
Dad’s pickup our fire engine
three in the front seat

I held my steering wheel
and honked my horn
while my radio played
flashing light in full display

life was grand until one day
a very big fire Mom
rode a pop up bed with wheels
into the back of a red ambulance
with swirling lights on top

Dad climbed in
and they went to the hospital
sirens screaming
danny Lena threw her arms around me
and held me tight

my baby brother came home soon      
I gave him an old rattle
then told Fire Mom to return him

we were done playing

I Land in Splits

Coach LaRue told me
to strap on a cup
before I attempted
my wild new move

the tension was palpable
every teammate was watching
memories of my past injuries
flew across my mind

when I was sixteen
on the YMCA trampoline
I bounced so high I hit the roof
spun head first into the springs

by the time I took up gymnastics
I was a veteran daredevil
looking to create my own
dazzling daredevil move

I run full speed across the floor
round off
back handspring
high layout

(I see the floor rushing up at me)

scissor my legs
and catch my body
arms extended
I managed to not hurt myself

Coach smiles and says sto me
“That’s a great new C move.
Let’s call it the Zukin.”

at the league trials the next week
my arch rival Joe Ross leads off
he starts his routine
with my move the Zukin

he flew higher and came down harder
landing to roll over groaning
the judges jump to his aid
and help poor Joe off the mat

I am up next
here goes my big move
flying high landing smooth
hit the landing arms straight

a collective “Ah” from the crowd
before they go wild and I place first

The Fifth Estate Coffee House

I pry open the window screen
dead flies fall into the frame
soon I am hitching a ride
on Sunset well past midnight

a convertible full of coeds
gives me a ride to their favorite lair
the famous Fifth Estate coffee house
Lord Rook commands the scene

it’s 1969 and The Troubadour is next door
their bouncer waves me in
the nightly tournament about to start  
six chessboards stationed in a circle

while his Lordship sits in a swivel chair and plays us all at the same time
speed chess is his game his chair’s a blur he taunts me with a line

hey kid you playing truant?
I’m playing for keeps I reply
he spins around collecting kings
checkmates the rest ‘til it’s down to me

I play the modified Sicilian defense
he taught me the week before
then scan the room for Juvie cops
he nods to me and whispers

Checkmate now get going
I scurry to find the coeds
negotiate a timely exit
settle deep into the back seat

I quietly pull up the bedroom window
hoist myself onto the ledge
and roll onto my bed
to land on top of my father

Training for the Death Valley One Hundred

I am an ageless leviathan
dressed in a yellow jersey
tiny cap at a jaunty angle
ready to circle the globe
on two razor thin wheels
like a winged stallion
soaring down a winding road.

I shift gears to quicken the pace
hear the greased chain change tempo
as my body leans into the curves
my inner daredevil takes over
rides between the double yellow lines
hands held high away from handlebars
I have no need for the amateur bike lane.

I notice my shadow projected on an embankment
a gray toned comic book hero of boundless might
together we experience the adrenaline rush
of the syncopated rhythm pounded out
by tires slapping cement at high speed
with one flick of my mental switch
my shadow and I easily defy logic
to become speed and light incarnate.

Suddenly a semi blasts me out of my reverie with his air horn.
Hey pixie boy he yells from his cab Move over you’re in my lane!
I am no longer king of the wheeled universe
I’m back to being a week end rider in training
taking a downhill spin to a truck stop
where I hope I can put some air in my tires
and no way am I ever going to pedal
up the Interstate to my hilltop home.

I call my wife who arrives like an angel gently reminds me I forgot my water bottle.

A Day at the Dentist

Tilted towards the sky in my astronaut’s chair
                                               I wonder why it is laughing gas never provokes

laughter.

The dental drill hums and whirs but still I hear
                                               the drone of elevator music take a

news break.

“A Tallahassee woman in a 10 year coma gives birth to twins.”

When in a coma what goes on in the mind?
                                               I wonder if the babies were born like their mom comatose?

Can she hear music or know her hair grows?
                                               Is there the possibility for a real life epiphany?

I’m deep in the dental void while the drill sings,
                                               chews tooth and bone as I ride it home

like it’s a bucking bronco tethered to a thick black cord.
                                               Suddenly a mirror appears and I am told:

SMILE

Sleep Paralysis

I dream of a murder of crows in attack mode
frozen mid-flight by a howling ice storm
v-shaped marauders of the night
caw come in for the kill
no more

then I wake
I walk with a swagger as the King of Times Square
Radio City Rockettes in sequined jump suits
synchronized high step kicking strutting
fill the 42nd Street stage of my dreams
as their batons connect with my head

my alarm rings

I wake in a ragged state as a beetle in a bottle
turned at the witching hour back into
being human tortured by my circadian rhythms
stop and I fear of never waking again
in human form

somehow I knew

being paralyzed before dawn then limbs limber
riding Day-Glo cascades down a balustrade
wearing red check flannel pajamas
wishing I could remember
how to sleep soundly

but I am

imprisoned nightly sleeping in my four poster bed
once safe with a comforter to snuggle with
pillows once friends may suffocate me
brain of mine stop your games
please make me awake

Secrets of the Cabinet Revealed

inside the translucent case
a panoply of petite artworks
greet me each morning
think mammoth machine
built to spit out
massive quantities
of tiny life-saving life-altering
bubbles of gelatin incased dollops
pure potions
sealed inside beautiful capsules
waiting to slide down the throat
or dissolve under the tongue
travel like the mad hatter
to be swallowed by a sea of saliva
becoming a multicolored blob
each to go its own way

bright blue to stop reflux
tiny yellow baby seeks out
particles causing instant death
deeply scored and heart shaped
shiny white to create mellow moods
orange strip deepens the mellowness
shiny green fights all forms of gas
round red to help the green one work
big boy white to stop cramps
homeopathic brown if big boy flops
burnt orange to lower the pressure
lozenge for being such a good patient
is actually a little elderberry pastille reward

Secondhand Beard

as the Phoenician sailor I ride roughshod on karma
into a sublime substance upon a restless camel

I enter at sunset wearing a second hand beard
through an angular entrance that swallows the innocent

a nebula in a broken watch pulses in my pocket
the sticky sides of matter encircle the tiny void

I carry it like a talisman this good luck charm
places time in reverse inside a six sided globe

on a gold chain one day it will dangle
while it swallows up my stillborn heart

I rummage around looking to find a dime
to buy some of the used nirvana on sale

a spinning spirit within a wall of silence
never hurries the truth when destiny rushes in

no more than a point rolls inside this globe
can I trade vacated space for more karma?

Francesco’s Protest

Florence becomes the Medici’s art incubator
dynastic arbiter creator of the renaissance
greatest concentration of artistic genius
one judge, just one funder found under
the dome of Brunelleschi playing
richmomachia

Upheavals feuds duels factions wicked bent
thieves unjust profane corrupt and godly
disordered chaos drunk diabolical deeds
also debauchery rape sodomy animist
cuckholds brawl beat steal and kill
ruin

Mardi Gras of the Fifteenth Century’s end
unleashed Black Priest Savonarola orders
build a craven pagan Pyramid to burn
demand death  of art and knowledge
boundaries shackle creative vitality
censor words censor art censor
life

Savonarola’s holy war against earthly knowledge
demands the destruction of the classic spirit
no humanism wisdom beauty satisfaction
burning tower of salvation destroying
eras of progress and transformation
lost

Francesco pulls out ancient texts and art from the tower
he and his brothers hide all the art and knowledge
books and manuscripts prose poetry plays
ancients about to disappear
as in

Chaldean oracles Zoroastrian
Egyptian Eudemus Prophet
Protrepticus & Gryllus
Hermès Trisemegistos
Aeschylus Paramendes
Empedocles Aphrodite
Aristotle
plus

Science Eye Shadow Rouge Pots Perfume Gowns and Jewelry Carnival Masks
Mardi Gras Crowns
Totemic Pagan costumes
Items of sinfulness

Savonarola’s fires crackle and flare as the tower falls
Francesco walks to the tyrant ashes in hand
then spreads them atop the murder’s feet
and in his final moments he quotes
Ovid

In Prison with Capitaine Dreyfus

at the Lycee Francais
we all studied Alfred Dryfus and his trial for treason
the Frenchman falsely accused of selling secrets to the Germans
I did not know you then

Later after I knew you well
we visited his statue in an obscure courtyard
where his sword was broken and I felt your heart open
then later still we first made love in a mirror lined room
imagining it was where he was interrogated

you admired Degas, Renoir and Cezanne

who loudly proclaimed his guilt
I idolized Pissarro, Cassatt and Monet
who ardently defended his innocence

we became prisoners on our own Devil’s Island
moments of cloud and rain lay interspersed between
a long chain of starvation, absence and fever, steaming sulfur
I thought whatever the cost of any bitter end
I would pay it gladly thinking our acts
our fraught nights of fragile union were carefree
protected under the cover of love

your glistening body and wild eyes
unfocused pits of blackness
looked beyond the past to imagine
how horrible fate can be, how difficult to rebel
to make destiny bow down before you

while we were fantasy prisoners
we thrilled to the madness of the moment
then suddenly we were no longer on Devil’s Island
being punished for “patriotic forgery”
living in cages drinking stagnant water

we were students returned to the real world

The Return of Tekhelet Blue

1.
we search in vain for our mythic quarry
the sea the sky the cloud the rainbow the heavenly throne
we roll down the rain washed grass
to reach a plateau above the Sea of Galilee
the sea the sky the cloud the rainbow the heavenly throne

we meet at the cliff‘s edge like explorers
my love my sparrow with a woman’s face
we climb up then sweetly doze in the meadow
the sea the sky the cloud the rainbow the heavenly throne

we discover a small lake hidden from view
where we find tide pools of the bluest blues
our lament soon turns into a song of joy
to see hues resembling
the sea the sky the cloud the rainbow the heavenly throne

we seek intense blue oils
unguents from within countless Hillazon
to be combined and boiled in salt and ash
snails tossed by storm when crushed
surrender to become beautiful Tekhelet blue
the sea the sky the cloud the rainbow the heavenly throne
I show her an ancestor’s burnt remnant missing only the Tekhelet blue fringes
we weep for the loss
                                 the sea the sky the cloud the rainbow the heavenly throne

2.
Torah commands that one thread
be affixed to the tallit at each corner
special twined and knotted fringes
tzitzit to be dyed by Tekhelet blue

We bring threads used in celebration
dip them and lay them out to dry
sew them onto the repaired prayer shawl made to wear at our wedding celebration

The blue of the tiny pitched roof
set upon my mother’s wedding ring
has 60 etched gates of wisdom
framed in gold over a blazing sapphire

Evokes the one found at the Burning Bush
glows like a Tekhelet blue beyond royal
once given it is received as a blessing
resting upon a pillow under the huppah

Marc Chagall’s Illustrated Bible

                                     Before Chagall only Rembrandt
                                 Loved the Book fiercely enough
                              To have learned the Song of Songs

                         I recognize man and angel and woman
                     Angel more woman than all women
                  Man more like himself than truth

             The waters live here on the page
           Beasts tremble to be seen alive
       Tablets ask to be read aloud

                     The artist painted for the ages
                        Manna disappears angels depart
                             The struggles of the earth are here

                                    Jacob wrestles with the angel
                                          The artist opens his radiant paintbox
                                             His hands follow his heart to tell the story

Jacob becomes Israel

On View at the Tate Modern

three large buckets of cow dung
deployed as art materials
by the he who put diamonds on skulls
and gold pins into butterfly wings

art is in the eye of the beholder
or is it?

I stare into the void of this painting
suppress my desire to cry out ‘J’accuse!
The Emperor Has No Clothes!
while other viewers coo and ooze awe

what critic’s review has cuckholded the eyes
of this crowd?

galleries display chicken scratches and jelly blobs
inner tubes spray painted with spinomatic assistance
a child’s tempura squiggle on a used apron
and I don’t get it

doesn’t art need to be original and compelling
and not farce?

I look at fancy gallery prices for
white canvases with bold print
wonder if a painting is ever finished
or is it just stopped and galleried?

if it sells at auction why should we believe
it is true art?

Sold at Sotheby’s or dropped in the trash
real art fine art ART with dollar signs
catch it like a falling knife
beauty does not need a price tag

The Anarchist Artist

I wish to become a legendary if rogue artist
known for defacing degenerate paintings
imagine being the first to slash an entire collection
a Comintern Comrade destroying canvases
captured on film my bold machete swings
decapitating voluptuous terra cotta statues
for the carnage-hungry subscribers of Art Forum

I will wear clown shoes and a Chaplin wig
carry a toolbox filled with hack saws and bleach,
a sledge hammer, a pick ax and lipstick
I’ll enter the Hermitage and tiptoe past the guards
backpack filled with bread, wine and cheese
in preparation for a long stint in the jail house

I make my entrance clutching the Cyrillic banister
dressed in the style of a young Pissarro
mount my Super Eight camera to the wall
check the angle then break through protective glass
to hammer my passport to Rembrandt’s “Danae”
and let the reign of my rampage begin

I’m inspired by the power of all-caps ART
by the patron who kissed a blank white print
left no marks incited crowds to demand access
by the infamous” KILL LIES ALL” graffiti
scribbled on Picasso’s “Guernica”
what genius to behead Ivan the Terrible
my favorite art protest in all art history

I am arrested and labeled THE Anarchist Artist
an icon of an art movement in Moscow
other artists bring their paintings
to burn at the jail house I now call home
an unruly crowd of fans keeps vigil
after broadsides everywhere announce my show

a retrospective at the museum where my defacings
are featured alongside my new paintings
now signed with a knife slash
plus a splash of paint

My Portrait of Van Gogh’s Postman

his eyes droop when he sleeps
but I can see how full of feeling he is

he honors the sweat of soldiers
scenting their battlefield correspondence

grieves the perfume of unopened love letters he understands what he carries in his satchel

I believe he is not the plain peasant I see he wears the extravagant beard of a king

I realize his goodness is eternal majestic like fields of sunflowers

I’ll steal those colors to give him a halo I know how to do that

quick sharp brush strokes keen as knives
I create the world in this portrait of my friend

alive on the canvas before me his eyes sparkle

when I look at this singular him I find myself

Brother Mine with a Broken Mind

for your eye
sunflowers exist as flowering suns daffodils bloom with smiling faces

in your hand
paint comes to life
your brush flies across the canvas leaving behind paintings full of pictures

yet your ravings
vex me test me wound me destroy the family who loves you
first they reel then grieve and reject you
your assaults on life assault us assault me you cut off your ear and give it away
a token of affection
you promise eternal youth to a woman inside your paintings

you’ve surrendered your life to madness poisoned your mind
chewed the tips of your beloved brushes painted your way to death

I so wish
I could remain
the ever loyal brother

but I can no longer sustain you

Moonlight of my Dreams

buckets of bad sleep fuel an impossible wish
for the song of a night bird

oh most lonely man lost in a mirror of misdeeds
weave magic into music

sing praises to the gentle fiber of light

before it vanishes

Our Ragged Planet

I.

machines and flames sing together
a percussive orchestra of hammers and fusion
they toil and roar in unison
white hot fires burnishing molten metal

drawn by pneumatic stokes
giant flame-dipped buckets ply the furnace
steel rolls in plumes of smoke and steam
in the rhythmic splendor of dancing robots

the train achieves the speed of industry
track rails lid amidst beauty’s
bed progress thunders past
tethered to smokestacks

II.

after Nature’s passing
prophecy wagers its sweet time

world rocking awake from slumber
ice laced wind against all sublime

we rip the shirt of life open
tails flap with disbelief

a young planet ages quickly
spinning in deepest gravity

revolving mutation drama
rain and ruin, drum and drone

what Nature can’t destroy
War will own

From an Eagle’s Eye

in the spring we built our nest on a flattened tree top
until a storm unlike any other threw down hail
the size of pine cones

unable to fly our eaglets were knocked to the
ground from high above the forest floor they tumbled
like stones not birds

so my mate and I soared into the sky dancing ritual
locked talons, united to fall, roll and mate
to return ourselves to earth

During winter we track the salmon from fresh water
our eyes follow them as they travel miles upstream
to spawn in the headwaters

when you humans are fishing far below us we watch you
you make a shrill sound ki ki ki ki  and I swoop down
to capture the fish you hoped to catch

you are my spirit human as I am your spirit animal
see my once beautiful crown and tail feathers
now grey from soot and sludge

we have come to an impasse where you become blind
your machines have chased away rabbits raccoons snakes
we now live on worms and grubs

my kind spread across the world to connect the divine
but who are you that draws a veil across the heavens
manacles your future to our extinction

I see in your eyes the possibility of strength and courage
yet I am the Spirit Animal that holds you my Spirit Human
we must share our freedom

we are drowning in seismic noise our voices confused or lost
my heart is in your hands as your spirit is in mine
feel the eagle’s tears rain upon you

and change

Flight

a gray hawk descends on a white crane
our land was once their land
descendants now yearn
to take it back

I wrap myself in a robe of words
pray for fresh eyes
an open door

Elysian Fields

Dragon of the north sky
Keeper of the meadows of heaven
Influencer and co-conspirator to the stars
My name is Drago and I have information

Zeus has become a stand-up comic
Mercury is writing some great one liners
Helios the Sun God leans into Saturn’s ring
Demands everyone tell him a good joke or two
Preferably with the Helvetica typeface he’s engineered
From those shooting stars that fade to black almost instantly

Suddenly everybody’s a comedian
Zeus responds to Helios with a classic joke
About the commuter train traveling salesman
Who brags about selling the same moon to both dippers
Naturally we laugh beyond measure and our great great laughter
Shakes up all stars across the galaxy and rips the fabric of time
So profoundly that many descend into Chaos or go dark
Slowly sprinkling down their stardust
Leaving me lightless and alone

Death stars disintegrate for me
I am re-born in the belly of a black hole
Baked into a new form by intermittent solar flares
Those wise guys roaming the vestibular labyrinths as pure energy
No soul but lots of shine and spatial geometries
Shadow boxers after my immortality

I enter a video arcade the size of a solar system
Maybe my game of five dimensional chess will improve
Or perhaps microscopic cultures will grow into single plants and
I’ll have a new life but as I never want to forget who I am
I have my name tattooed in other languages
Dreki in Faeroese Kazyeeqen in Flambian
Behind my newfangled lips

Or maybe one eon of fun is enough
So I pull the ripcord and parachute
back into my existence as a tuba player
in the Orchestra for the Age of Enlightenment

The Attack on Fort Bee

Armed with blow guns and steel tipped darts
Sam and Cyrus and Julia
take off on their mountain bikes
head down the trail to the target zone

to the eave of the barn at the old farm
where a yellowish beehive
is filled with pollen colored drones and the buzz of the colony
grows louder and louder as the kids

blow guns raised in unison
take careful aim
as they cruise under the eave
to fire three blow darts directly into the hive

the honeyed structure folds in upon itself
furious worker bees fly out to see
the trio of blow guns jettisoned
by the cheering attackers

the bees swarm like Pandora’s demons
out of their world and into ours
the cyclists peddle like commandos
to fly through our screen door to safety

No Longer Can I Protect You

among the ashes

a solitary cloud

carries unwelcome strangers

                                                                            silently they multiply

                                                                            no wind to animate

                                                                            them preparing to invade


particulates tumble down

while victim’s strangled screams
crackle in ventilated breath-less air

                                                                            spirits wait to catch elation
                                                                            lost in time
                                                                            unstoppable knife-edged


plague years vanish to reoccur

except the Virus

immune to elixirs and prayer

                                                                            remains

Testing Follies

grandma’s 90th birthday party matters
who knows if she’ll live another year
so it’s four to a table outside with food
the deli assures us was shrink wrapped

each of us has a box with our name on it
everyone but Uncle George wears a mask
he won’t as he still smokes his Havana cigars
then coughs up a storm but that’s Uncle George

when we rapid test three days later
I test negative and you test positive
which makes no sense as we are inseparable
so you test again and it’s still positive

I set up a quarantine zone while you walk the dog
I install a toaster oven and stock the fridge
shelves are filled with Campbells and Kleenex
our basement has become a Covid B&B

you will be fine, asymptomatic surely
so we each put on the same Netflix movie
sing camp songs from when we were counselors
I see your eyes glaze over as your arm goes limp
you appear to be a puppet when the string breaks

before the sneezing, heaving, panting begins
I curse Uncle George
as assassin microbes invade your brain
take your mind apart
murder the life you will never know again

Gimp Boy and I

my mother pities him, her special child
she calls him her little broken bird
never able to leave the nest.  
classmates mimic his shuffle walk
and I grew up creeped out by his slight drool
his head, misshapen by birthing tongs.
mom loves him unconditionally
me she whelps, spanks once
and hands me off to her spinster sister.
Here, he’s yours now, she says,
He will practically raise himself.

every time I hear this family story
it makes me the worst kind of angry.
my father the great good doctor
had a special bedside manner
that he never brought home
to share with me and our family.

he called my dear aunt ‘little miss biddy’
a body never meant to make babies.
she had a virgin hysterectomy
so all she has in life was me.

dad died young but not soon enough.
the wounds he inflicted still fester.
my anger lingers.

it returns full force as I hang on the phone
waiting for the nurse who never picks it up.
in the background I hear muffled conversations
his brother’s got a day, two days max, papers are shuffled. “
how is it the Virus took half the ward and missed him”

I begin to yell
Put him on the damn phone!
all I hear is static and then click.
rage sticks in my throat but I call back
just to say goodbye for mom and I.
he’s alone and dying and no one can visit
he doesn’t know there’s a pandemic
and I am helpless
and I realize I am the worst breed of sorry

what kind of older brother am I
to have been jealous of the life he led?
all I can do is cry into the phone
beg the silence for forgiveness.

My Doomsday Is Delayed

April 18, 2022
The rutted roads of Sebastopol were strewn with bodies
often separated from their appendages, like mannequins
dropped from the back of a truck. Lifeless often headless
hairless and twisted dispersed by the hurricane of war.
Everything was closed except the morgue where I worked.
Covid 19 had burned itself out taking civilization with it.

May 31, 2022
I left home in an old Airstream when the suicide bombers
started jumping out of helicopters into sporting arenas.
Though I was out here all alone I could heard the drone.
It almost caught me carving tombstones for the miners
in Emigrant Canyon near the abandoned Eureka mine.
None of the survivalists survived a Jonestown style massacre.

June 29, 2022
Today is my birthday. I have only frieze dried food to eat.
I have waking flashbacks about eating flapjacks instead
and how my Uncle Joe would enter contests
to win a free trip to Tijuana so he could watch Jai Lai.
I remember ring side seats at boxing matches
and what it was to feel the warm spray of blood.

August 1, 2022
I am distancing myself from my former self, eating berries
Hunting birds with my old bow and handmade arrows.
Being the last straggler has its own rewards. Take the cabin
I live in, provisioned for stranded winter skiers with a taste
for mistletoe eggnog and my favorite brandied pecan pie.
No snow. No company but memory piled upon memory.

September 5, 2022
I have a shortwave radio and pick up the news that every
weapon ever made is now being used. Every lab virus is released.
Apparently my life form will not be restocked. If someone comes
my way, I hope they wear my shoe size, then I will coax them
Into the bear trap, suit up to get the shoes off their feet
then hang glide across the Grand Canyon just west of me.

October 31, 2022
The nights are long but do not feel endless.
My collection of Great Books keeps me awake.
Last year I put on my miner’s outfit with the headlamp
And trick-or-treated down the mineshaft by my Airstream.
I anticipate the “Big One” but so far all the nukes have been
tactical and far away. Only I know that I am here. I’ll be fine!

Just Fine.

The Old Grandfather Clock

so little depends
upon

an old grand
father

covered with white
hair

beside the new
phone

Hazmat Pajamas

we are the new cave dwellers, afraid to be touched
enhanced images of this globe eating virus
dance past my sightline like a ticker tape parade
match.com and tumblr arrange virtual dates
my son takes them into the zoom room

armed guards at the supermarket
patrol the aisles protecting empty shelves
I hoard so much toilet paper if laid
end-to-end would reach the moon

the fridge in the garage is filled with birthday cakes,
pop tarts, fig bars, and pig’s feet
barf bags are close at hand
Purell and P50 masks top my Amazon wish list

I am making test kits out of toothpaste and highlighters
stitching face masks out of tie dyed underpants
my brother is wiping kitchen counters with Drano
someone is mixing alcohol with Aloe Vera in a broken toilet
I stitch together leashes to distance me from my chocolate labs

now all I need is a ventilator for my family
I’m terrified of leaving ancestors without descendants
every conversation is commandeered by the virus
it zombie walks us home to never leave again

nowhere to go I camp out in bed to visit dreamland
I am back in the 50’s waiting for the Big One
Duck and Cover says the teacher
I drop to the floor wondering if it was disinfected
she tells us to sneeze into our elbows
I pray my mother remembered
to sew the Lysol wipes into my sleeve
On the black cover of the final issue of Mad Magazine
I see a Covid 19 smiley face appearing as the grim reaper

Butterfly Fly Away
there is wisdom in snow before it melts down

in the wet wing of the soon to be butterfly
as it breaks open the cocoon

in the logic of hard winters
survived because of waking dreams
that take more than one lifetime to comprehend

in the smile of an old farmer
jostled awake by the fluttering
of a young monarch on its maiden voyage
just past his ear

I Became a One-legged Dragon Envious of the Centipede

last week I was a dragon in my own right
jaw thrust out ready to take on all comers
I wore a magnificent Daddy Warbucks coat
ready to honor my partner Mr. Ja
at the Snake and Viper lounge

                                                                    deepest greed had blinded me to risk

Mr. Ja orders the baby vipers in hot oil
eat it from the tail end warns the waiter
mouth agape I lean in to sample a viper
who twirls round to bite me
                                                                       he seems hungrier than expected

I howl as he sinks his razor sharp teeth
into my plump vulnerable cheek

Mr. Ja takes out a handkerchief
pats the blood on my face
looks me dead in the eye and says
now we are blood brothers
                                                         my cheek is still bleeding
he informs me my share of our venture
is now an unbrotherly 1%
I tell him he can have it all
                                      he asks for the key to my office

Why had I come to the land of betrayal to be eaten for dinner?

He Who Needs No Knife

When it’s time for the 9 o’clock show
all the lights dim except one.
Shiny steel doors swing open.
Chef Chow walks in, bows low
stands under the spotlight
picks up a wet cheese cloth
slaps it on the granite countertop.
A sharp snapping sound startles us.
The cloth is removed with a flourish
this kitchen’s magician begins his performance.

A white bowl of flour appears.
He takes a small handful
powders it onto the wet mass
with practiced strokes he flattens it
into the shape of a shoe box top.

Twice he flours it stretches it lifts it high
spins it round and round like a lariat.
Deftly he lays it down on the counter
its many cords now elongated
tentacles six feet long.
All eyes are fixed on Chef Chow.
A hushed pause silences the dining room.
Diners are in awe.

He removes a thin wooden wand
hidden within his loose sleeve
slides it under the middle of the pasta
slowly picks it up and single noodles appear.
They shimmer as he shakes and twists them r
eadies them to be boiled Cantonese style.

Soon his secret dish emerges from the kitchen.
Delicate aromas of rare spices from exotic locales
fill the room as Chef Chou tastes his culinary marvel.
Spontaneous applause erupts as he smiles and makes his exit.

The People’s T. Rex

Flanked by waist high jade tureens
the esteemed Chairman Chung
inhales the stink of a shark’s fin
in the halls of his private palace
where he keeps his fossilized T. Rex

When I arrive
I notice
the uneasy set of the Chairman’s jaw
the unmistakable stink of that shark’s fin
and I ask what seems to be worrying my friend

Years ago
he confides in me
this T. Rex was found
at a secret military installation
where no soldier gave him a second thought

so Chairman Chung shipped him here to the palace

Last month
a T. Rex sold at auction for $26M
today the disciplinary head of the Communist Party
is traveling from Beijing to lay eyes
on the Chairman’s T. Rex

I smile
suggest my friend take this opportunity
to give the palace and its contents to the army
as the People’s Liberation Army Dinosaur Museum
we both smile

Any more advice asks my friend and I offer this:
prepare the white shark fin as soup
serve it in one of these giant jade tureens
make enough for one hundred jars one for each villager
let each of them leave with a jar of shark fin soup
insist the official leave with a jade tureen

Tiananmen Square Reflections

I share my pu-er tea with Sweeper Ho
the best souvenir salesman in all of China

we Chinese are a family that suffered a great tragedy
our students exist in a warp of crying time
they avoid mirrors, to not see for themselves
the unspeakable torment that surrounds them
each morning I stop by his kiosk
to share a cup of tea and read The People’s Daily
we speak in code with our friend Fu Weici
who goes on and on about Tiananmen Square

the blind child is unable to save China
the magic words to free our people
are trapped inside the child’s mind
with no laboratory
to experiment with freedom

I try to quickly finish my tea
but my friend Sweeper Ho joins in

the backward facing gang of  four cowards
 brought mayhem to an impoverished land
carrying a little red book and the thrill of revolution
Fu Weici continues in his despondent voice

Trotsky’s minions take to the floor
for the last dance of the Perestroika Polka
the communist man lives on as a statue
while anarchy that crazed fat rooster
wreaks havoc in the hen house
I do not speak
but I too remember Tiananmen Square
the morning after the demonstrations

       how plentiful are the red
       watermelons this year
       how carefully the people
       on the crowded streets eat
       the sweet fruit then spit seeds
       like bullets into the gutter
       never to drip juice
       on the blood of the students

On Ice

let my dreams pour ice cubes into my pillow
that I may rise to drink dawn as spring water
and end my day to take in sunset like a feast

though I still miss you

My 4D Spacetime Watch

he built the bridge between
grandfather and I with a clock
to regulate and repeat our cycles of life
springing forth at appointed hours
as tuning forks in motion ring in retrograde

I bond with my distant dad
over pins and wheels and interlocking rods
a skeleton taken from a water clock
cast in bronze all wound up delivers
only a bucketful of my father’s time

my son now wears my dad’s first watch
he describes how it keeps the time
the verge of escapement from inside
climbs the 17 jewel winding movement
looking to trigger the main spring

the handed down Timex Rolex and the rest
of life’s treasures for every minute they
grant me from every face they express
handcuffing memories to my wrist
arms swing while second hands never rest

the clockwork mechanism of the skies
is a coiled spring that releases the millennium
when the universe chimes an elaborate alarm
geometries slow and stop and reverse
as the Big Bang uncoils and constant time returns

Dinner with Dr. Mukwege

What is life’s meaning? asks Dr. Mukwege
We are here to help others restore their dignity
or our lives will make little sense.

Kwanesi is fading from the book of life
a young mother beaten, raped, left for dead
she cries out, hands shaking
“Where is my family, have they eaten?”

Can we help save her? asks our guest
whose Nobel Peace Prize salutes his devotion
saving lives near the shores of Lake Kivu.
Good people, why do you stand idly by?
we are humbled by his heart felt words.
he makes us feel the depth of Kwanesi’s pain
If one of us is savaged, are we all savages?

We sit under the stars at a festive meal
dressed in fine clothes eating pigeon
careful to avoid the small bones.
We dip apples into saucers of honey
wishing everyone a sweet new year.
We lift a glass, say “never again.”

Dr. Mukwege has called us out
If evil has no limits it becomes unthinkable.
When you ignore the pleas, evil takes control,
slaughters the innocent in the name of God.

He confronts us with their names
reminds us of their deeds, explains to us
how General Coco de Coco and his militia
raped castrated tortured and killed over 300
women and children in a single afternoon.

The UN High Commission’s report goes online
to tell the story in great detail, to name
the victims not the perpetrators.

Those names are locked away, hidden forever.

We move slowly outside and overhear phrases
snippets of thoughtful conversation emerging from
the line where we wait for the valet to bring us our cars.

The Night Nurse Led Me to the Isolation Ward

All night I asked her why
 all night she told me nothing
 because madness is a denial
 like mirrors in your mind

Random safety and accident
combine to form a roof over her head
She chooses between silences
no protection from inner storms

The embrace of her home was once intoxicating

Now the arc of insanity
blows through the walls
It drifts lazily over her head
it shines with a hazy red glow

Black birds chased shrouds
 night opened itself and stayed open
 thoughts exploded in her head
 swam in eyes choked by lightening

Her spirit now exceeds the speed of light and falls into waters beyond measure

All the doctors
 with their baling wire
 could not put her mind
back inside a shimmering blue sky

The white coats assemble
spell out words to describe noise
Terrors roar in this zone
souls adrift in a bottomless haze

When I think of her I hear only the whistle of a flute in some ancient wasteland

Emanations

I sit at my grandfather’s roll top deskOn this monochromatic morning in Maine  
Amid the dark saw-edged pines and gray lakes
While dust mites scurry about in his fusty studio
And indestructible memories return again

I collect all my guilt and carefully affix it
Into my old green three ring stamp collection
Grandpa had retrieved it to save my memories
Of a childhood impervious to change

One faded pre-war stamp from Greece
Stares up at me from the last page
It honored Prometheus and his golden box
How his ebony eyes pried into my being

I shivered as I thought of his wife Pandora
Who opened the box and released a shrieking cry
Followed by all the ills that beset mankind
I closed the binder quickly to silence my fears

I wonder if Pandora did too

Sailing Alone

a rattle, a tap and a moan
     close the porthole

a rattle and a moan
     turn on the light

two rattles
     batten hatches

two taps
     arm the spear gun

two moans
     Loosen the bones

rattle
     start the engines

tap
     tied to the wheel

moan
     sail spins wildly

sharks knock at the portholes
manta rays come over the gun wail
sailor’s knot can’t be untied
rogue wave breeches starboard

waking from my dream
I reach into my pocket
find a small crab
bulging eye winks at me