The Sonnet Page

About the Evil That Men Do

2012-02-09T16:38:00.001-05:00

I think I've got an allergy: my eyes
Are watery, my throat itches, my nose
Is stuffed up when I try to sleep, but flows
All day, while you complain and rhapsodize
About the evil that men do. Surprise!
I have no time for feelings. Stanch your woes
And hold your tongue. This is like minstrel shows:
Offensive, unamusing, and unwise.

I have no use for episodes like these,
Where someone sings a melancholy song
About the evil that men do, the strong
Harming the weak, and such-like histories.
Leave off -- I say the notion makes me sneeze,
And I don't mean to dawdle here for long.

New

2012-02-05T17:22:00.001-05:00

I'm looking for new passions to extol,
New songs to praise, new singers to applaud,
New heroes we can treat just like a god
Until they step into some moral hole
To be destroyed by scandal. My new goal
Is to produce from this, our native soil,
Two peas dissimilar in one peapod,
A dopey otter and a singing mole.

Refresh my memory: you were the one
Who opened up that can of worms and cheese
Prepared for starving children overseas
To offer as the king's dessert. Well done!
I'm looking for a girl to call my son,
New bold ideas, twisting in the breeze.

What Occurred

2012-01-08T12:30:00.000-05:00

Review the incident: refresh your mind,
Remember when the ambulance was called,
Which vehicle was running, which was stalled,
At what point you thought you were going blind,
Who seemed considerate, who was unkind
(And what they said that left you so appalled),
At what point you thought you were going bald,
And why you left your last complaint unsigned.

Now think: was what occurred to you that day
So painful that a lifetime of regret
Will overwhelm you? Aren't you finished yet?
What more, what else can anybody say
To fix this? What great forces are in play?
None? Seize the moment: let it go. Forget

Folklore

2012-01-02T13:32:00.000-05:00

I've been involved with these revolts before.
At first, a revolution's in the air,
But soon enough nobody seems to care
About injustice, or the costs of war;
It's all about hate now, and keeping score,
And who's been pushing whose friend down the stair.
At first, truth moved us, knowing what was fair
Or unfair moved us. Now it's just folklore.

By now, a halfwit could anticipate
The death of comity in rival cliques.
You laugh whenever anybody speaks
Unless your back's been scratched. You overstate
How much has been done, cutting off debate.
You'll all be finished soon. I'd say three weeks.

Rich, Delicious Sonnets

2011-11-03T05:14:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry that I haven't written you
A poem lately, but I've been away --
I'm still away now, though I mustn't stay,
And maybe I'll be home soon. If it's true
That poetry will be my Waterloo,
Let's eat some Belgian chocolates from a tray
And when we count the fourteenth, we can say
This is a rich, delicious sonnet, too.

Neither in pride nor in humility
I offer what I have: these fourteen lines
Of random thoughts with neither brains nor spines
(That's why profusion comes, as if the sea
Spewed forth ridiculous disharmony),
Ideas, concepts, unevolved designs.

Glad We Came

2011-05-31T16:44:00.000-04:00

Did I remember to turn off the stove?
I haven't been away from home that long,
But now my memory is not so strong
That I could tell you, when I start to rove
From shore to sea to island olive grove
And back to city streets, where I belong
(Inside a small hut by a billabong?),
With whom, or if my lover's eyes are mauve.

If my apartment has burst into flame
That may not matter if I lose my way
And can't return because I'm lost today,
So why the worry, why the fear of blame?
Arriving here at last, we're glad we came,
And we'll eat raw food, cooked through by decay.

Yeah, I Got Nothin'

2011-05-14T11:58:00.005-04:00

Yeah, I got nothin'. Got no sonnets here
To post for readers -- here, or anywhere.
I'm writing this while losing all my hair
And meanwhile, filled with contumely and fear,
Repressing memories. It's been a year
Of pain, distress, and things no one should bear
Alone. So I got nothin'. Let me share
This general malaise. Let's have a beer

Together, maybe watch some weekend sports,
Discussing how a sonnet helps us all
By speaking fourteen reasons for the Fall
Made up of eight remarks and six retorts.
My fellow boozers laugh. One spits, one snorts,
And I got nothin' -- one flat basketball.

Don't Make Me Laugh

2011-02-13T16:40:00.002-05:00

This Sharpest Thrill

Don't make me laugh. Sure, I'm uxorious,
But my wife, beautiful, devoted, smart,
Has earned the full devotion of my heart.
Our love, resplendent and victorious,
Is unassuming, not vainglorious
Or overweening. From the very start
We felt less calm, less whole, less well apart,
And parting always seemed laborious.

But sometimes, when we have to separate,
We keep ourselves aloof, sure, steady, still,
By courtesy and by an act of will.
She is nevertheless my perfect mate.
Please understand that I don't call it fate;
Don't make me laugh. I choose this sharpest thrill.

Love's Triumph

Don't make me laugh. I'm now so furious
That I've been shouting at the long-necked geese
That fly past my front yard. Uneasy peace
Descends on us, but I'm still curious:
Is it a kindness, or injurious?
I'm told that all hostilities will cease,
The indigent will get a wage increase,
And love will triumph. It's all spurious.

Proclaiming "Amor vincit omnia,"
They promise everything, but won't deliver.
There are a hundred arrows in their quiver,
None magical, and in your viscera
You're thinking how we fixed the Kiowa.
They say, "Don't make me laugh. Cry me a river."

Romantic Tropes

Don't make me laugh. This is nefarious,
Your bland insistence on romantic tropes,
Ill-built on plaintive cries and foolish hopes,
The dreams cruel, the joys vicarious.
The sad, defrocked vicar can't marry us,
Amid his miscellaneous hemp ropes,
Transaxles, animals carved out of soaps,
And driftwood clubs, many and various.

You might as well claim he's your fiancé;
He's something of a reticent mooncalf
And easily convinced — don't make me laugh.
It's written on your face, as plain as day:
What you desire I want to toss away.
It is detritus, sweetheart. It is chaff.

Learning How to Whistle

Don't make me laugh. I've gotten serious
Since learning how to whistle. Like the sound
Of harness bells, or dogs sniffing the ground,
It's neither humble nor imperious,
Not useful, smart, or deleterious,
But natural, commonplace, always around,
Unreasoned, unrestrained, unbowed, unbound,
And unexpectedly delirious.

We're having an adventure and a half
Since learning how to whistle. In a haze
Of indecision, imprecision, greys
And sepia tones, an old photograph
Shows where we've travelled from. Don't make me laugh.
I've gotten serious, these last six days.

My Excuse

2010-12-19T08:55:00.001-05:00

Look at this gap: one sonnet since October!
People must think I've lost my zest for life,
Or maybe spent the last two months not sober,
Staring at the dull blade of a knife.
Not so. My mother died, and, overcome,
I haven't written sonnets in six weeks,
Exploring this new territory: dumb
And overwhelmed when anybody speaks.
It isn't my emotions, but the work:
The hordes of people to be notified,
Official forms to fill, with every clerk
As humble as an ordinary bride.
Today I've written something. This won't last,
But maybe something will, grim and aghast.

Luncheon

2010-11-24T16:11:00.000-05:00

I'm finished cooking lunch. Please come and eat.
I've slaved over a hot stove since daybreak,
Preparing this extraordinary fake,
Something that looks like dim sum — chicken feet,
Pork dumplings, breaded beef, a meal complete
With stir-fried peppers and that spicy snake
You love so much. Now that we're all awake
Come to the table, please, and take a seat.

I have no chopsticks, and no cutlery
So use your fingers. If the food's too hot
Don't stick your dirty fingers in the pot,
But wait until it's cooler, and you'll see
There's still some chicken left for you and me,
Along with that domestic thing you caught.

Hallowe'en

2010-10-30T09:04:00.001-04:00

A wide and watchful look is in your eyes,
Although no threat can be detected here
By meerkats or those paranoid white deer
Always preparing for the worst surprise.
So if you chose an animal disguise,
I'd recommend another option. Fear
Looks good in any costume. Every year
The monsters stumble and the vampires rise.

I dream with orthodox intensity,
No freakish organists, no changeling elves,
No whooping cranes with crowns, no pantry shelves
With elbows, just the usual debris,
Where my descendants laugh madly at me.
My ancestors repress a smile, themselves.

Nervous Dance

2010-10-23T10:23:00.000-04:00

One more exhausted boy debates the plan —
Essentially, it all boils down to this:
What he might have to do to earn a kiss,
A sigh, an invitation to the clan,
And how much further she might let a man
Continue, or a boy, towards that bliss
He's aiming at, and what would make him miss
His several targets. He'll do what he can.

Invariably, he fails. There's just no chance
Of his succeeding ordinarily,
And even if, one time of twenty-three,
He makes the right steps in this nervous dance,
Those steps won't work next time. Retreat, advance,
Retreat again, with greater probity.

Bad Policy

2010-10-12T15:54:00.001-04:00

You don't like poetry? Then go to hell.
I don't like you, the stupid way you rave
Without regard for truth. You want to sell
Bad policy. Who's walking on my grave?
I feel a shudder and a shiver now,
As you explain the world to imbeciles
Who still believe your senseless rants somehow.
I hear you talking, and it gives me chills.
This language wasn't made for fraud and lies,
Your tongue is foreign to the truth of things,
It's madness to go on — it's no surprise
The blackbird calls you liar when he sings.
You tell the world you don't like poetry?
That's fine. I don't like you; you don't like me.

Alter Nothing

2010-10-06T17:12:00.000-04:00

If I were larger than a cuttlefish
But smaller than a worm, no paradox
Would seem too great: each fall we set the clocks
Back to their former spot, an empty wish
For time to alter nothing; there's a dish
With vinegar, with beef and chicken stocks,
Red wine, green mint, hot chilies and ham hocks
That I enjoy — it's rather devilish.

I am an algorithm, or a prune,
An exoarmature, a homemade flail,
The question on exams that makes you fail,
A childish notion, a rock-scribed Norse rune,
The endless movement on a desert dune,
I am the ocean, and a small child's pail.

The Mission

2010-09-29T20:09:00.001-04:00

The mission is a little hazy, boys,
But there was something in the note I got
About the factory where Gus was shot,
And using us as practical decoys.
We were supposed to make a lot of noise
Both going in and coming out. I thought,
When I first read it, it might be a plot,
But if it is, let's show a little poise.

Think how Achilles, who embraced his death,
Ran at the walls of Troy, and Ajax, too.
They never saw their homes again, but you,
You're still alive, boys, and still drawing breath,
So let me hear your barking shibboleth
And fall in. Let's see what these arms can do.

Grace

2010-09-18T09:56:00.001-04:00

I'm macerating in my own juice here,
Like that delicious fruit in alcohol
You have there on the mantel, by the doll
With an expression of distaste and fear.
You understand, I love you and revere
Your every thought, even the ones you call
Religious, but I'd rather hit the mall
And shop for thongs than pray. I hope that's clear.

I hold no brief against that holy wine,
Or St. John's Passion. Those things seem all right,
And if you want to eat by candlelight
I don't need to inspect the food. I'm fine
With your believing in something divine,
But supper's growing cold, and that's not right.

Written on the Wall

2010-09-14T15:41:00.000-04:00

Who said I had to fight? I never fought,
Because my arms were weak, and my soft hands
Were used to playing flute in marching bands
And working in pastels, which I was taught
By maiden aunts, who told me that they thought
The world was savage, but there must be lands
Of peace, where everybody understands
How beautiful is gentleness. Why not?

So sometimes I was beaten, not too much,
Not meanly – just a little now and then,
And I stood up as in a lion's den
To face each blow, embracing every touch,
And then they'd hand me back my cracking crutch,
Repeating, "Daniel! Now you are a man."

Endurance

2010-09-09T19:52:00.000-04:00

Endurance is my virtue. No one here
Compares with me. It isn't patience, no,
Nor perseverance, which is just a show,
Not substance. I, of course, could persevere,
But that's too active – it's a sign of fear
To be so quick to move about, so slow
To bear things 'til they're better. What will grow
Or shrink – no matter – we will see next year.

It's all about the sure passage of time,
Which runs consistently, not always straight,
Not always happily. Instead of fate
Octaves and sestets, often not sublime,
Just fourteen more pieces of me that rhyme.
I write another sonnet, and I wait.

Breath

2010-08-31T15:42:00.000-04:00

I read the I Ching faithfully for weeks,
Cast stones, and sticks, turned cards, disturbed the ghosts
Of ancestors, questioned the stars, made toasts
To goddesses, read omens in the leeks
And turkey gizzards, like the ancient Greeks,
Prayed silently, and loudly, to our hosts,
Who turned out, sadly, to be deaf as posts.
One wastes one's breath and effort when one speaks.

So what I wanted then was not to be,
And what I hoped would happen never did,
What I would do was not what I was bid,
What others dreamed became nightmares to me,
And what they wanted, I could not agree.
It's quid pro quo, or sometimes, quo pro quid.

What to Resist

2010-08-21T07:37:00.000-04:00

Resist the urge to implicate your friends,
Congratulating everyone who laughed
When you dispatched the losers on a raft,
Saying, "Bad people will come to bad ends."
That full responsibility depends
On what you meant, you know. Their little craft
Was badly overloaded, understaffed,
And ill-built. I think you should make amends.

Resist also the rash apology,
The calm, familiar words that have no weight
And mean too little. Leave to heads of state
Loud nothings. Stick to rationality
And true proportion. When we put to sea
We knew we would be tested hard by fate.

Intent

2010-08-15T19:57:00.000-04:00

You were inveigled, you've been telling me,
You say that you were troubled by the plight
Of children suffering, a woeful sight
Not eased by gentle, soaring harmony,
Sweet voices, plaintive, a fine plangency
Like church bells on a clear, dark summer's night.
You've been insulted by the widow's mite
They wanted, to the mightiest degree.

You'll be insisting, I suppose, that grace
Was in the offing, that you raised your arm
In aid of peace; that someone felt alarm,
You claim, was wrong. But mere words won't erase
What people felt, coldness in your embrace.
You may intend no harm, but there was harm.

Unseated

2010-08-07T08:03:00.001-04:00

It's not infected; I'm quite sure it's not.
It looks bad, but I don't believe that's pus
Congealing on the skin. Don't make a fuss
About a little wound like that. You fought,
You hurt somebody else, and also caught
That scratch. There was that doctor on the bus,
Who dressed the wound well, reassuring us
That you'd be fine. Don't tell me you forgot.

Of course, there was that other blow you took,
The large umbrella on your tender head,
Just after what you ought not to have said
Was said, and the old lady raged and shook
And, swiping at you with her shiny hook,
Unseated you. Let's get you home to bed.

Our Dreams, Briefly

2010-08-02T15:47:00.000-04:00

The time will pass unkindly in this dream,
Its speed uneven, as the sky moves past,
The dusk flows by a day-bright, light-soaked stream.
Then stars flash quickly. Morning will not last,
But turns to noon, which just as quickly spins
Itself to evening, and I find your lips.
I kiss you slowly, to atone for sins
Not yet committed — then the moment slips.
We manage at a mad and jagged pace,
And though we grin, we lose some time for that.
The moon appears and disappears, its place
Usurped by morning, and I take my hat.
The day turns into night, frantic and stark,
Then light surrounds me in the naked dark.

You Move the City

2010-07-23T17:54:00.000-04:00

Your walking shifts the pattern of the street,
Invents the view, refashions and refines
The old horizons, so their edges meet
In several places, forming several lines.
You move the city as a sporting feat
And leave us with these motley, split designs.

Mosaic, serpentine, and wholly bright,
The new designs seem carelessly displayed
And aimlessly devised, too swiftly made.
The stars, which used to shine a stylish white,
Have darkened with the other parts of night.
The sun, until this morning, never swayed
Or shivered. Still, what can we do? Upbraid
You for this darkness, blame you for this light?

Unpleasant People

2010-07-16T10:34:00.001-04:00

Unpleasant people fill the world with shame
And bitterness drips from their mouths like spittle.
Demanding our forgiveness and acquittal
For all their crimes, they shiver and duck blame,
And blithely make the most outrageous claim
Of having earned the dark right to belittle
Because their souls are pure, their small hearts brittle,
Despair their surest friend, who speaks their name.

We're all the same: catastrophe-fed fear
Is in our nature, is our nature, sings
Its siren song to us. What each day brings,
Along with pressure to be insincere
And load up on emotions and bad beer,
Is insults, chains, disaster, and mood swings.

I Bare My Chest

2010-07-10T14:36:00.001-04:00

I could defend myself, but I will not.
I could remind them that my history
Is theirs, and when they're spitting dirt at me
They're only throwing out the gifts they bought,
And throwing back the load of fish they've caught:
It was too easy – leaped out of the sea
Seeking a hook to bite, improbably.
I tell them, Go ahead, take one more shot.

I bare my chest, I sing, I demonstrate
The way skin glistens on a moonlit night
Through trellises and vines, a dappled light
On tingling arms and shoulders. It grows late,
My heart beats slowly, timed to rhyme with fate,
And wait for knives. I'm in an unfixed state.

Masque

2010-07-01T19:44:00.000-04:00

You looked good at the funeral today:
Black suits you well, especially the veil.
As we remembered him, grown wan and pale
From love, and sadness, and rebuked dismay
(You mentioned that you told him he should play
To ease the minutes past), you did not wail
Or argue that our lives might have grown stale.
A silent frown kept such remarks at bay.

I see you understand emotional
Refulgence, brightness stolen as a thief
Takes furniture, and, broken on a reef,
Your boat sinks slowly. It's a notional
Shipwreck, we see you as devotional
Or, failing that, you could just fake the grief.

Why I Don't Bother with Polls

2010-06-20T08:06:00.000-04:00

Since I already know what I think, polls
Just waste my time. Besides, the news reports
Mislabel and distort their meaning. Courts
May rule this meaningless, but no — our souls
Misrepresented sears my brain like coals
Laid on my forehead. I have sharp retorts
For ignorant mistakes, but power snorts
And raises foolishness to meet its goals.

Embracing bad opinions, free of facts,
The clueless cling to fear and easy blame,
Count on the famous, famous for their fame,
To tell them what to do, unreasoned acts
Based on crude lies in long-since disproved tracts,
And triumph. I just want to clear my name.

Walking Through

2010-06-13T13:50:00.001-04:00

I didn't understand, but now I see
The truth about the choices that you made,
Between the men you slept with, games you played,
The art and money that you stole from me,
And where you went, once we were history:
It's all a package. You thought I'd been paid,
But then my temper got a little frayed
Around the edges, and I took my fee.

We ended up, the both of us, distressed,
But I'll get over it, and you will, too,
Unless you think I took too much from you
Without permission, but I would have guessed
You'd manage. We agreed life is a test
Of strength and perseverance. We'll walk through.

Four Beers

2010-06-06T13:57:00.000-04:00

Depress me with your attitude, you stinker,
Arguing like crazy about crap
Nobody cares about, like how that map
Is no use to a dedicated drinker.
As for myself, I'm not the sort of thinker
Much exercised about lint in my lap,
The bluebird's wingspan, whether love's a trap,
Or why you never signal with your blinker.

Insisting that the world should pay attention
To these ravings and inanities
From science, grief, and the humanities
You perpetrate with barking mad invention,
You aggravate me. Also, must I mention
Your singing, vanity of vanities?

Concession Speech

2010-05-30T08:03:00.000-04:00

Don't stand on me, you ass. That really hurts.
I don't remember giving you the eye
Or spitting at your head when you walked by,
Or kicking you, or grabbing at your skirts —
All right, your pants. Where do you buy those shirts,
The Stupid Store? In fact, I'm pretty shy,
I'm just reluctant to tell you a lie,
And honestly, friend — cut down on desserts.

Maybe I shouldn't have called you a blimp,
Or added that your wife looks like a sow
With three chins, bad skin, and a unibrow,
But think — I never said you were a pimp,
Or hit you, or made jokes about your limp.
Okay, you win, gumhead. Get off me now.

Isotherms

2010-05-20T16:49:00.001-04:00

I fell somewhere between the isotherms,
Cold, hot, and tepid, alternating fast,
Pulsing between the present and the past,
Pretending to be pals with pachyderms,
Fire, courage, carnage, carriage wheels, and worms,
Reflecting how the first became the last,
The swift became the slow, and the half-assed
Became the mascot of six legal firms.

It's all symbolic, a sad metaphor
That represents demented similes
As disparate and desperate as fleas
In soapy water, as inapt as war
Among the poppets sitting on the floor,
As sure as Satan's heart in the deep freeze.

Spark

2010-05-15T19:32:00.001-04:00

I felt a spark. I didn't feel a spark.
You rescued me, abandoned me, ignored
And watched me closely, raised me, left me floored,
Kept me at home, amused me in the park,
And had me feeling rather like the shark:
Valued and feared. A great concerto scored
For ninety instruments, a fruit tea poured
For one, I am — where are we? In the dark.

You did an attitude: leg back, arms wide
To meet me with a delicate embrace,
Your true affection showing on your face,
Your secret longings set off to one side.
The open heart, the intellect you hide —
It's fire. Or something sweet, in any case.

Poem for Gert and Bert

2010-05-07T11:34:00.000-04:00

It may be that I seemed unduly curt,
But almost all of my damp soul was hurting,
And the way you stood there grinning, blurting
"King of kings!" and "Bird thou never wert!"
Romantic? No, I thought you merely pert,
Without a conscience, carelessly asserting
Your superiority, diverting
Our attention — I had been inert.

I told you I thought you were being flirty;
Swinging round your body was a skirt
That flared. I said, "I'm living in a yurt,"
And you declared that I was being shirty,
Using tactics that were mean and dirty.
Maybe so. We both became alert.

Education

2010-04-29T16:33:00.000-04:00

You may be seeing deafness, energy
And charm as one, and may choose my Jane Doe
As your charm, but decay will say hello.
It stems, as anybody will agree,
From hoping cueball heads are like the sea,
Their destiny to shine, all steam and flow.
You veer away from ecstasy: you know
Her double, you don't know why you are three.

So this is education. What you read
Remains with you. The songs you hear, the shows
You see — all evanescent, like the snows
Of April in the city. What you need
Is someone to resist. Follow my lead:
Peruse her from her head down to her toes.

Defeat As a Mere Figure of Speech

2010-04-18T09:15:00.001-04:00

I'm running out of adjectives tonight,
Recklessly challenging the castle walls
With pigments, figments, budgerigar calls,
And trebuchets, despite a line of sight
That's hampered by inadequate time, light,
And clarity of vision, with snow squalls
Beginning just past six, and as night falls
I stare blankly. I may give up the fight.

A drifting overlay of flake-dry snow,
Our outpost covered, isolated, stark
In deepest gloom, a ripening, fell dark,
Compounded by dim dread of what we know
About our awkward trebuchet's weak throw
Keeps us from hitting our intended mark.

Chèvre

2010-04-11T10:09:00.000-04:00

The trouble with the way we fold our coats
When we arrive, to throw them on the bed
Before we join the party, to be fed
And liquored up on gin and ice cream floats,
Is that while we've been opening our throats
And calling out whole poems that we've read
Somebody took our stuff, and left instead
A flimsy cape made from the skins of goats.

I find that I can tolerate the theft
Except for one thing: not my allergies,
In spite of how the goatskin made me sneeze,
But rather that the cape lacked any heft,
And I was so cold, when we dressed and left,
That I stole all of the imported cheese.

Me and My Mistakes

2010-04-05T15:08:00.000-04:00

I am impossible; you are a saint.
Improbable, impassive, I impugn
Your capability to hold a tune;
You drink a fairy sherry, feeling faint,
As quaint as quietism. I drink paint,
Embracing the embarrassments of June
(Some doltish drivel underneath the moon),
And you, revolting, will resist restraint.

You have avoided me and my mistakes,
The residue of resin where I sit
That keeps me where I am: I stick to it,
You fly from fallen love, for both our sakes,
And, somewhere in the snickering of snakes,
I'm pretty sure I also heard you spit.

Here

2010-03-31T17:15:00.000-04:00

If you don't understand the rules, say so.
If you can't stand the waiting, please don't wait.
If you discover yourself in a state
Of anguish and despair, look down below
Where you'll see scads of people in a row
Who understand much less than you, and hate
Their undeserved condition, and curse fate,
Believing you're the one who's in the know.

Of course, I'm not suggesting you're aware
Of anything that might be useful here,
Since, frankly, nothing could be much more clear
Than your unfettered ignorance, from hair
To toenails, with some aimlessness to spare,
And reckless haplessness, from ear to ear.

Dispute

2010-03-20T10:55:00.000-04:00

I simply couldn't eat another bite,
That's all I whispered to the maitre d'
When he approached and tried to hector me
About the menu and my appetite,
Too tiny to appease him, and in spite
He claimed that I had ordered the split pea
And not the onion soup, which, you must see,
Was neither gentlemanly nor polite.

So now that I have noted on the bill
My strong objection, and the manager
Can see how staff has only lied to her,
Perhaps this outlaw waiter will keep still,
And you can let the change sit in the till
As if it were a tip, as I'd prefer.

My Nerves

2010-03-06T13:25:00.000-05:00

My nerves are shot. This savage, makeshift ride
Has undermined my confidence at last:
I've given up my dream, of something vast
And wonderful found on the underside
Of forest underbrush, identified
By experts as a template of the past,
Written in ferns and branches. I held fast
Too long to this. Ambition has now died.

Hope makes me shake, but no, I'm not afraid —
Because I have no hope, I have no fear,
No past. I'm living in the present here,
Waiting for slow death in a forest glade.
I've been outwitted, outmanoeuvred, played.
My nerves are shot. Things will be worse next year.

These Pants

2010-02-23T20:16:00.001-05:00

Inspector, would you look at this? These pants
Have no belt loops, elastic at the waist,
Or buttons for suspenders duly placed
In front and back, or holes cut out at slants
Made for a rope like those for hanging plants.
I'm worried I'll be laughed at and disgraced,
Because my underwear, though I've been chaste,
Is red, the very colour of fire ants.

No, I can't change that. All my underwear
Is flame red, bright red utterly unmixed.
I don't like muted colours, lost betwixt
Hope and desire, as if one didn't care.
I race the sun, I challenge death, I dare!
Inspector, please just get these trousers fixed.

Broken Man

2010-02-14T10:18:00.000-05:00

I am a broken man, close to the end
Of all things: of my day, my life, my rope,
Free from an untold mass of chains -- from hope,
From fear, from light, from every erstwhile friend
Who succoured me before now. I intend
No harm, no good. If I can only cope
Until my ex has had time to elope
With her ex-priest, my wounded heart will mend.

If this state is rock-bottom, I'm surprised
It isn't worse. Sure, it's unpleasant here,
But certain ancient fogs begin to clear.
It turns out much of what we had surmised
Was crazy. I've been over-analyzed:
I am a broken man, and free from fear.

What I Won't Do

2010-02-03T17:30:00.001-05:00

I haven't tuned the seven-string guitar
Or fixed the crevice near the thirteenth fret;
I traded bon mots with a marmoset
And stuck my head inside a pickle jar,
Regarded Moscow's turrets from afar,
Explained what I won't do without a net,
Said I would grow up (though I haven't yet),
And put some orange decals on my car.

I really love you, when I think of you,
Which you can see from this bouquet of flowers
Somebody brought you, somebody who cowers
In anonymity. It isn't true
That I don't care. These little things I do —
I've been awake now for a whole two hours.

Delay in Posting

2010-01-23T12:05:00.001-05:00

My wife's been in the hospital, so verse
Has sat in second place to her condition.
She sits there, in some version of perdition,
While we watch, wait, and hope it gets no worse,
Carouse, cry, call for cabbages, and curse,
Pretending it's a saucy new rendition
Of an old song in a new edition.
We're flinging crap, to make the crowds disperse.

Well, anyway, my wife's been awfully sick,
So I was much too worried to write much,
And what I've written lacks the common touch
I try for; where my rivals like the trick
Of strange inversions laid on pretty thick,
Meanwhile, I have avoided any such.

Personal Note

2010-01-09T22:26:00.000-05:00

A personal note here: I have no sign
(Unless you like "Slippery When Wet"), hate strife
And hurried socializing, love my wife,
Believe in understanding, local wine,
And human failings rather than divine.
I like fresh bread and a serrated knife,
Expect no more from living than a life,
And when I suffer, I choose not to pine.

I fear disease less than credulity;
Though crafty ignorance seems to be bliss
We know enough about a lover's kiss
To choose it over any poetry,
Much less religion, or astrology,
And I've been thinking, as I crafted this,

The Red Giraffe Plays

2010-01-02T19:54:00.000-05:00

The red giraffe prepares to hit the dirt,
Having delivered a big hit, and now
He slides, making a furrow like a plough
Between third base and home. We had been curt
When he suggested joining us, his shirt
Preprinted with our team's symbol, Cass Cow,
Indeed a little holier-than-thou
About his playing, and he did seem hurt.

Now, having changed our minds, we've learned a lot
About snap judgments, and have realized
His qualities beyond the giant-sized
Bright spotted neck, although the second spot
Above his heart, right where the skin is taut,
Is still our favourite; he's not surprised.

Dark and Light, Dark

2009-12-26T20:05:00.000-05:00

The dark, when Abelard met Heloise,
Had settled on the continent, unlit
By stars, the moon, electric lamps, or wit.
The populace began to cough and wheeze
Brought on by widespread allergies to cheese
And crackers, cleaning up was done with spit,
The knights kept ripe bananas in their kit
To ward off succubi, but lived with fleas.

The light, when Heloise met Abelard,
Was never true, and hardly ever shone
For Druid worshipers of futile dawn;
Clouds, fog and sleet came suddenly and hard
Leaving the people scared and dark roads scarred,
And soon enough the lovers had moved on.

Along a Messy Riverbank

2009-12-20T06:37:00.000-05:00

I have a special fondness in my breast
For flowerbeds with dowdy, stinking weeds
And decomposing fish among the reeds
Along a messy riverbank, a zest
For chattering small rodents in a nest
Under low branches, with their unmet needs
And open mouths, their caches of fresh seeds
And nervous tics. I think I like those best.

Some people feel life shows too great a range
Of scenes, of tastes sour, salty, bittersweet,
Of attitudes and rat-catchers, replete
With courage, inattention, flight, and change.
I think, rather, that not enough is strange,
That almost all of life is much too neat.

Last Rioja

2009-12-12T15:41:00.000-05:00

My last rioja, cellared since the spring
And ready, went down smoothly. Short of cash,
I had to finish what's left in my stash,
Which isn't worth much. Almost everything
Is gone, because she had a glimmering
Of how our lives were turning into ash,
And left two geisenheims and one grenache
When she returned to Mother's cosseting.

I'm finished with this portion of my life;
This is the place I stop and draw a line.
I opened up the other Spanish wine,
I traded in my bus pass for a knife,
Left eighteen cents in pennies for my wife,
And marked time while I waited for a sign.

Calculus

2009-12-05T20:19:00.001-05:00

If differential calculus were fun
For people with a deficit of brains,
If all it took to understand the gains
And losses in the market were a gun,
If, when the calculations were all done
And we were out enjoying how the cranes
Flew over us as we stood counting trains,
That cleared our heads, you'd really be someone.

You can't explain how water comes to boil,
Or why the denizens of the Black Sea
Have come out of their fruitless revelry
To face hard facts about depleted soil,
Excessive irrigation, and crude oil.
You're still in party mode. You're nobody.

Try Forsaking Hope

2009-11-24T18:57:00.001-05:00

Don't try self-improvement: try forsaking
Hope, attempt the sullen life of slackers,
Covering your dreams in quiet lacquers
With a penchant for discoloured flaking,
Answering the phone without quite waking;
Sell the quarter horses to the knackers
After getting money from your backers,
Hiding all the evidence of shaking.

Giving up the ghost? No, just the pleasures
Of a largely circumscribed existence.
New days coming? This futile insistence
On some forward-moving hunt for treasures
Only proves the need for drastic measures:
Sorrow's all you're seeing in the distance.

Cheese Snaps

2009-11-14T08:19:00.000-05:00

We ate a barrelful of broken bits
Of cookies, pretzel sticks, and candy bars,
Some of them hollow, some the shape of stars,
Along with nectarines, dried, free of pits,
And cheese snaps. When we exercised our wits
And made rude jokes about cheap snacks on Mars
Threats suddenly came up: the trunks of cars,
A bright school blazer — one that almost fits.

They bullied us, raked us over the coals,
Forgot the good, embraced the undertow
That whirled and sucked them helplessly below,
Complaining we had eaten all the rolls.
The three of us, good fellows and good souls,
We still remembered how to let things go.

Not My Style

2009-11-08T11:39:00.000-05:00

This wasn't an example of my style,
A combination of intelligence
And sensitivity. For sevenpence
And something just a little like a smile
I'll show you: Say you take this rattail file
To work on pieces of broken faience
Once owned by persons of great eminence
Until they're fine antiques. This takes a while.

Then we have auctions, gifts, and private sales,
Where tax deductions are the currency,
Where all my wit and sensitivity
Are called on, and my project never fails.
Not this. This was a botch, a race of snails,
A funeral without a eulogy.

Blank

2009-10-27T15:45:00.000-04:00

I've drawn a blank, but I'll go on:
The search for truth begins this way,
And while you think of things to say
That tell too little, time is gone
And you've said nothing. Your face shone
With effort, as you tried to pray,
But in the end, your cheeks were grey
And puffed out, stifling a yawn.

What was it you were telling me?
Some rigmarole concerning fear,
The unappealing atmosphere,
An overactive memory,
Or something fine about the sea?
I've drawn a blank, so I'll stop here.

What's Right Is Easy

2009-10-21T20:51:00.000-04:00

I'm decked out like a fucking Christmas tree,
With red lights on my forehead, mostly lit
(The way I was when I agreed to it),
And strings of popcorn hung all over me,
With angels, and a goddamn bumblebee
Stuck on my shoulder, and some other shit
I don't have names for. There's a little bit
Of treacle on my cheek, that I can't see.

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
I sway in windless calm, devout, irate,
Pretending that why I'm not standing straight
Is to protest this crooked world. What's right
Is easy: I shall wait here half the night
And then impale myself upon the gate.

Hoo Dee Hah!

2009-10-11T20:40:00.001-04:00

I managed to put by a little cash,
Which I believed both ethical and wise,
While my successors botched the enterprise
And sailed along like imbeciles, as rash
As measles and as useful as cold ash.
They murmured foolish, useless alibis
Mixed in with sad, inane, and heedless cries
Like, "Ah, Love!", "Hoo dee hah!", and other trash.

The chairman called the meetings of the Board
Ridiculous, and who could not agree?
They tried to pin the fiscal slide on me,
But when I was heading the company
We all made money, and while profits soared
I had made certain I could still afford
Some fun — even a little irony.

If We Are Human

2009-10-02T17:36:00.000-04:00

I'm worried — you might also say concerned,
Or one of several other words we use
To indicate the shortness of the fuse
Of our emotions — seeing what I've learned
About your past. It's not just truth you spurned,
It's sympathy, for anyone: the Jews
Exiled and shunned; the women in the news
Oppressed and scarred; the maimed, the lost, the burned.

If we are human, we're required to feel,
To know each other, like bees in their hives,
Tribes primitive and civilized, with knives
Of hacked stone, or with blades of burnished steel
As bright as sunfire. For the common weal
If we are human, we connect our lives.

Reassurance

2009-09-26T20:09:00.001-04:00

If I were angry, everyone would see,
Because I've never let my anger go:
I hold my grudges till the veins all show
Across my forehead, and expressively
Denote my feelings of disharmony,
The rage within me rising from below,
Up from my toes, deep as the undertow,
Deep as the ocean, boiling up in me.

So you would know. There wouldn't be a doubt
About the meaning of the sounds I made,
Or why the volume rose as tempers frayed
And quiet chiding rose into a shout
About whatever I was on about.
Oh, no, I loved that little trick you played.

The Bell-Ringer's Lament

2009-09-18T19:13:00.001-04:00

I don't suppose you understand the facts,

At least the ones presented yesterday

By drama queens and winemakers, who say

That troubles always come in cataracts

("It never rains — it pours"), and we had pacts

With carnival employees, whose back pay

Was garnisheed. Their faces all turned grey

When the admirals put on their scurvy acts.

Myself, I got as restless as a lamb

Beside the slaughterhouse, as if the wool

Was not what they were after. Fanciful

As when I've had a dilatory dram

Standing atop the church — that's where I am,

My hand firm on the rope I've got to pull.

Haven

2009-08-24T17:44:00.000-04:00

Envelop me in camphor, fresh and cold
Like ice reflecting wind, wind blowing sand,
Sand covering the desiccated land
As far as you can see, making me bold
Enough to wrest the fear of growing old
Out of my bosom and into my hand;
You may insist that you don't understand,
But you did follow, when first you were told.

Now warm my heart in blankets of dark felt,
A haven of safekeeping, where I'll find
A pure, uncomplicated peace of mind,
The fate I know, the wisdom I was dealt,
And I'll remember thinking, where I knelt,
That love is ever scarlet, smooth and kind.

Resist the Categories

2009-08-16T11:27:00.000-04:00

The evidence is in: I wasn't there,
Although no one believed my alibi
Until the testimony made them cry
And all the acrimony made them stare
Until their eyes bugged out. What you can bear
And what you think will surely make you die
Are frequently the same thing. What you try
And what works neatly prove life is unfair.

So who's responsible? Who did the deed
And left our maiden aunt without a pin
For her big flowered hat? No paladin
Showed up to hear her desultory screed.
The truth you wanted and the facts you need
Resist the categories. Trust your skin.

Fast and Loose

2009-08-07T13:24:00.000-04:00

A smattering of traumas and despair
Among the innocent, the placid fools
Who graduated from the finest schools
Only to fail to understand what care
Was needed when you want to breathe the air
Pumped out for more experienced men, cools
The atmosphere. It's time to learn the rules
That govern failure and success: don't share.

What you have finds itself resisting use,
And ending up in someone else's pocket
With all the speed of Occam's famous rocket.
You thought it was a razor? Some papoose
Thought that was funny, and played fast and loose
With facts. Don't stick your finger in that socket.

Why We Sat Still

2009-07-29T16:09:00.000-04:00

The exercise I tried left me with aches
In every nook and cranny of my frame,
And even though I really liked the game
I had to quit, but for my daughters' sakes
My trainer, thinking all of us were flakes,
Made me a solemn promise not to blame
Or argue, and I tried to do the same,
But we were weak, and called each other snakes.

There isn't time to tell you all the lies
Invented to explain why we sat still
When it was time to move. We've had our fill
Of shaking and description, sad good-byes
And omens of embarrassment. My eyes
Ache also, but my wife gave me a pill.

Taxidermist's Lunch

2009-07-20T17:46:00.001-04:00

I practise taxidermy now for fun,
Not just because I like stuffed animals
(Especially the beige marsupials),
But also for lunch: grizzly on a bun,
Hot rabbit cakes, moles basking in the sun.
I have no use for those green vegetables
Or soy. I feel like I'm in manacles
Without my furry friends. Get me a gun

And I'll become as placid as a snake
After a good meal. As I have stated,
My life is good, and I have contemplated
Everything from stuffed duck to fried hake.
There's one more dinner that I want to make,
And then I'll stop, my belly wholly sated.

Embracing Empathy

2009-07-11T21:39:00.000-04:00

Malicious, vicious, meretricious, not
Nutritious, expeditious, or refined,
The way we dated, danced, disputed, dined,
And made ourselves unpleasant, was it fraught
With indolence, unnatural yet untaught,
Or merely what would come to be defined
As our especial trick, seen from behind,
The art of buying things that can't be bought?

I am impossible. You are a saint,
Impassive and impressive. I impugn
Your reputation with a merry tune.
A cup of fairy sherry makes you faint,
As quaint as quietism. I drink paint,
Embracing empathy. You are immune.

After the Collision

2009-07-01T11:53:00.000-04:00

Men reveal themselves through different follies:
Trying to reduce their growing middles
Frying pancakes on their non-stick griddles,
Sneaking rides unpaid on public trolleys,
Claiming their own verse Sir Walter Raleigh's,
Thinking they have mastered both bass fiddles
And the telling of bad jokes and riddles,
While defaming sheep and English collies.

If my brain, deluded and divided,
Seems calm, then you wouldn't have impressed me
With your perspicacity, outguessed me
Or been cool when we and Mars collided.
Now that all this empty talk's subsided,
I'm prepared for any old thing. Test me!

Make Way

2009-06-20T10:44:00.000-04:00

Make way for the despicable young man
Whose inexplicable activities
At last week's seasonal festivities
Seemed strange, but we discerned some sort of plan
In his dispensing with grace or élan
And showing his brutish proclivities
By claiming he was sure to live at ease
Without the rest of his putative clan.

"Let's live alone!" he cried. Let's live our lives
Without these masochists that make us ill
With epic violence, designed to thrill;
We'll raise our glasses and lower our knives,
Discuss each other's children, friends, and wives,
And scour the world for reasons not to kill.

Mark My Words

2009-06-12T12:01:00.000-04:00

Okay, don't mark my words. I'm unconcerned
About your attitude and your distress
At how things turned out. It's a stinking mess?
Well, that's what happened when your stomach churned
With feelings left after the bridges burned,
And, wanting more, you ended up with less.
You made her wonder, and you made her guess;
Now you complain, now that the worm has turned.

If you had listened when I tried to say
A few words, just in passing, about wax,
The price of oranges, coyote tracks,
And hopeless love (which I have put away
With other childhood fancies), you could play
That song to her, one more time, and relax.

Drinking Your Health

2009-06-07T15:13:00.000-04:00

Your face is funny, and your teeth don't fit,
And when you turn your head away from me
Your ear dips, like a dog's ear, crazily.
The way you talk, hurtling great gobs of spit
(And no one can make any sense of it
In any case), annoys us all. You see,
The one thing on which all of us agree
Is that we don't like you one little bit.

However, if you're buying us a round
We'll drink your health. We're feeling in the pink,
And all your whining only made me think:
What do I care? It's like a baying hound:
I can't say that I ever liked its sound,
But when your voice is ordering, I'll drink.

All Lines

2009-05-29T16:40:00.000-04:00

I played a trick on you, a nasty trick
With gumballs, wool, and travesties of care,
As true as darkness in the empty air.
We never tried to beat you with a stick,
Or chide when you laid things on pretty thick
(You villains! villains! Strike me if you dare!),
So, nasty as it was, it ended there,
Until you called the cops. You make me sick.

You claim this is a matter of respect,
But you know better, don't you? There are folks
Who think the world is merely hubs and spokes,
But you know better. All lines intersect.
Keep listening. Resent lies. Rise. Reject
Revenge, and leave us have our little jokes.

The World Spun

2009-05-21T16:28:00.000-04:00

As I looked over all the things I'd done
Since spring, since buds had sprouted in the trees,
Stamens and pistils, bears and bumblebees
And evenings with a little bit of sun,
I thought, Let's stop a moment. The world spun
Too fast. Though I remembered the deep freeze
With fondness, I hoped whole new histories
Would happen now. Why run so fast? Why run?

The autumn rains began: a single drop
Came down near where the giant bales were heaped,
Beside the towering harvest we had reaped.
The world spun; watching from the mountaintop
I flagged the brakeman, but he wouldn't stop,
So I threw caution to the wind, and leaped.

These People

2009-05-13T19:45:00.000-04:00

The raucous expectation of delight
Gives way to overcooked satiety,
Revels give way to dark sobriety,
Urban renewal turns to urban blight,
Disaster to enchantment, day to night,
And hope to fear. Expect variety:
Loud songs, unpleasant faces, piety,
And negligence raised to an eerie height.

These people standing here in front of you
Are not a cross-section, fit for a poll,
But weirdos, oddballs, here and there a troll,
Unfit for anything, a fulsome crew
Of halfwits held in place with paper glue,
Despairing, like us, of becoming whole.

The Way You Lose

2009-05-02T16:38:00.000-04:00

One more example of the way you lose
Is how you always seem to look at me
As if my pants were ripped below the knee
The way they were when I was nine. Confuse
Me with a child, insist I have to choose
Between your love and the Aegean Sea,
No more now than an azure memory
Of someone's mythological first cruise.

I don't see Theseus up on the cliff
Where once I saw his royal helmet shine
In sunlight just the colour of Greek wine,
Considering his father, tall and stiff
Against the sky, thinking What if — What if —
And mournfully discerning the wrong sign.

Invention

2009-04-27T16:25:00.000-04:00

What marvellous invention did you make,
An item so much larger than regret
That time went by and no one could forget
The incident when, even with the fake,
All of the women who still felt an ache
Began to sing, and all the men we met
Were gentle, thinking, What buffoon would fret
In such a lovely spot, for heaven's sake?

You never told your secret, never talked
Of anything but accidental cheer,
And offered nothing but a glass of beer
To all inquiries. Every route was blocked,
All roads, each alley and dark path we stalked,
But your invention somehow made things clear.

Making Things Work

2009-04-23T20:28:00.000-04:00

The cardinal's infraction, venial
While more than standard (and when he was young),
Was yet somehow remembered, as it stung:
"You told us," they averred, "that Sweeney'll
Make things work; he was not congenial,
And though the words came tripping off your tongue
His answer was a rippling snake among
Us pigeons, and he called us menial."

That myocardial infarction hit
And changed the way we measured everything,
So when old Sweeney's ass began to sing
They whistled right along, told him to sit
And had the cardinal sit, too. One wit
Claimed that the Lord's voice had been thundering.

Leap Year Sonnet

2009-04-11T10:01:00.000-04:00

Counting the twenty-ninth of February
As something special, when you're sixty-four
You're only sixteen birthdays old. What's more,
If groups of singing waiters making merry
Is less appealing, if somewhat more hairy,
Than dancing cats, you've saved over two score
Unpleasant meals, so pop the cork and pour,
And offer a fresh toast to the Blue Fairy.

Counting the day instead as something weird,
An oddment of the calendar, a day
Out of the normal run of things, you say,
"If I had birds' nests filling up my beard --
An outcome of hirsuteness all have feared --
I'd hate it less than this." And that's okay.

In a Vain but Very Varied Vein

2009-04-02T21:19:00.000-04:00

She died intestate, in a wicked state
Upon a moor, beside a restless Moor
Who was a boor, though not in fact a Boer;
They ate liver pâté from the live pate
Of an entrenched trained trencherman whose fate
Was fêtes poorly designed to aid the poor.
The lure of lurid lust, the cross-eyed lour
Of John Locke and light lattes made him late.

The coarse cops found her corpse deep in a copse
That rose above the hedgerows, one white rose
Laid by her nose. As everybody knows,
The barbers, with their barbed, barbaric yawps,
Had shorn Locke's locks, on shore near chandlers' shops
And charnel houses, in striped hose, with hoes.

The Magic Supermarket

2009-03-27T16:53:00.000-04:00

I'm struck, trolling the supermarket here,
How friendly everybody is, how sweet,
And helpful. Are they not rushed off their feet,
Laid low by customers' demands, in fear
Of someone always watching the cashier
For penny-ante errors? You might meet
A nicer group of folks on any street,
But not in this world, where the stakes are clear.

Cashiers who joke with you, and send you on
To other, shorter lines? That's something new.
And managers who stop to chat with you
After you tell them that you're overdrawn,
Or that, come Sunday evening, you'll be gone?
There must be magic in the morning dew.

Strength

2009-03-19T19:12:00.000-04:00

I could invoke the past, and if I do
The truth will show its face here, warningly,
As if to undermine sobriety.
I drink too much, thinking too much of you,
And you, grown violent, start drinking, too,
As though some sort of makeshift ecstasy
Will turn up in the dregs. It's misery,
As both of us will know, before we're through.

What happened, then, love? Did we meet too late
For anything to work right? Was it wrong
To choose the words of a romantic song
As our delusion? Could we still blame fate
For all this grief, or underestimate
The graceless posturing that keeps us strong?

New Moon

2009-03-12T20:42:00.001-04:00

This month, the new moon is an empty slate,
A dream of nothing. Hang a fever on
The crescent's point now — soon that will be gone,
As full moon, coming at a torrid rate,
Rounds out the fortnight, grown rotund and great,
But short-lived; like a lover pale and wan,
Now half again, and smaller yet, it shone
Then vanished, back to a potential state.

They say time is a trickster and a thief,
But things return to what they were, and soon
(Spring, winter, back to spring; noon, midnight, noon),
So turn the page. To mourn each falling leaf
Is just a fraudulent display of grief
That waxes, wanes, and waxes with the moon.

Louis and the Crowd

2009-02-28T21:11:00.000-05:00

Immense Immanual bends bars of steel,
And Pork-face Petra sports a fulsome beard . . .
The Chickenhead berates the crowd that cheered
The tightrope walkers, Buzz and Benny Beale,
And is quite justified, the others feel,
In calling the crowd down. As Louis feared,
The crowd thought eating fire was really weird
But nobody believed his act is real.

Laconic Louis does not bare his teeth
To show the lacerations on his gums,
But waits for Thad the Throat to smile and sheathe
His swords, then, to the rolling of the drums
He loudly introduces Kelpmouth Keith,
Who sticks his face into a tank, and hums.

Stump

2009-02-22T20:16:00.000-05:00

I understand you're staring at my stump,
Although I really can't see, being blind,
Or smell the coffee. Or an orange rind.
Or anything at all. I heard a thump
And felt a definite improper bump
First from above me, then from just behind,
A few remarks were heard, mean and unkind,
About the size and colour of my hump.

No one dares speak of disabilities
In my disgruntled presence (I've got gout).
Some folks believe I ought to be devout,
But somehow I just can't get on my knees
And praise their calves. Instead, I face disease
With stoic pride. Is my tongue sticking out?

Lacking Dignity

2009-02-18T15:47:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting on a flight to Winnipeg,
Alone with thoughts befitting nobody.
Ill-humoured, shaking, full of contumely
And breakfast — underspiced microwaved egg,
A corn tortilla — I can feel my leg
Cramping, just like they warned, when they warned me
Not to fly coach: "It's lacking dignity,"
They smiled. "We will advise, but we won't beg."

Oh, sure, I must have just imagined that,
Imagination surely run amok,
An outbound freight train or a monster truck
Of crazy thinking underneath my hat —
But wait! I have no hat! I watched, and sat,
And waited, but I didn't have good luck.

You Are My Darling

2009-02-14T07:47:00.001-05:00

Your hand is soft as velvet, but I feel
Something harder – not bones, no – in the glove
That could be diamond, as it may be steel.
You are my darling, and my own true love.
Your lips are bold, your answers bolder yet
When I have questions; why, it is your right
To right me, as you have done since we met.
You are my darling, and my heart’s delight.
I can go on, I will continue thus
With you beside me. I will drink my fill
Of your eyes. Who would dream of parting us?
You are my darling, and my very will.
You are my love, my heart’s blood, a sharp knife.
You are my darling, and song of my life.

This Shiver

2009-02-08T19:19:00.000-05:00

This shiver was an unexplained event,
A picaresque development, a thought
Too brief to matter, a forget-me-not
Among the blooming lilacs, heaven-sent
(Or maybe just a passing word, well meant
But not as meaningful as words we caught
Between the chauffeur and the maid), a spot
Of momentary truth that winter lent.

We'll give the moment back now, payment due
Upon receipt, and duly logged and paid.
That kiss between the chauffeur and the maid,
Resentful yet respectfully held through
Eight seconds was as honest and as true
As February and the games we played.

Thirty Minutes

2009-02-04T18:01:00.001-05:00

I like the doctor's office waiting room,
Where we spent thirty minutes, just until
The doctor called us. I stood very still
While Sue looked round, in the encroaching gloom,
As if to say, "What's that?" or maybe, "Whom?"
It was our moment! Us! We'd had our fill
Of waiting, but I like this room, and will
Remember two poinsettias, still in bloom.

It's wholly pleasant for us hoi polloi.
I got us in, with a series of shoves
Up the beige ramp. Inside, she stuffed her gloves
In pockets, and our hostess wasn't coy
About breastfeeding and her little boy,
As we three talked about our lives and loves.

Undesirable

2009-01-31T19:46:00.000-05:00

I'm not desirable, apparently,
As patrons of the library now go,
At least compared to one woman I know.
Here she's conversing, right in front of me,
About some disks, computers, and a key,
With a librarian, whose records show
She owes an old fine. How much does she owe?
Two bucks. Thank heaven it was less than three!

Thank heaven, because it was never paid.
The poor librarian asked, Would she mind
Paying it? Her account's fallen behind.
I think her pocketbook had been mislaid,
Or some other mistake must have been made.
They also yell at me when I get fined.

Surly Individuals

2009-01-25T09:04:00.000-05:00

The wind was blowing extra hard today,
So my reflection in the looking-glass
Showed hair gone crazy, an unruly mass
Of surly individuals at play,
Each mocking me in its own happy way,
And, nodding, I remarked, "We'll let it pass,
It looks the way it looks." This wasn't brass,
But who I am: cool, laissez-faire, and grey.

I peered, then stopped myself, getting no nearer,
And I turned around, and felt just fine.
Was this a miracle of rare design?
No, every day, however, it grows clearer:
As long as I'm not staring in the mirror
How I look affects your day, not mine.

Connected

2009-01-20T22:49:00.001-05:00

This morning I went out across the street
To buy a newspaper, and at the store
I met a woman who was pretty sore
That homemade products took a clear back seat
On store shelves, and to her that spelled defeat
For all Canadian consumers. More,
She worried all this had happened before,
Elsewhere, and would continue to repeat.

Why did we have this conversation now?
I have no notion. We had never met,
And as I write I don't know her name yet,
But she believed we had connected. How?
What did I say, or not say? I'll allow
I listened, but to what words? I forget.

The Juggling

2009-01-13T21:59:00.000-05:00

Impressive as it is, the juggling
Of girlfriends falls just short of wonderful,
Despite your bold contention that the pull
Of art has all the women clamouring
To be tossed up and down. If anything,
They seem distraught to be available
For these manoeuvres. "You're an animal,"
The last one said, as she threw back the ring.

In fact, if they had been as clamorous
As you maintain, I think I would have heard
The noise, out in the garden. It's absurd
To say that what you do is glamorous,
Or that it shows that you were amorous;
The women, I'm sure, use another word.

How Deep the Devil Digs

2009-01-04T12:30:00.000-05:00

Impressive as it is, your Afterlife
Is unbelievable, an empty place
Of harps and peering in the good Lord's face,
A stupid thought, among too many, rife
With platitudes about an end to strife
And angels wailing. That's amazing grace?
Not really — it's a strange, alarming space
Between forlorn hopes and this sharpened knife.

You don't scare me with demons, bogeymen,
And recipes for puddings without figs,
Decisions as regards the use of pigs
In pies (a blackbird's better than a wren
And no, the sword is mightier than the pen),
Or threats about how deep the Devil digs.

The Soft, Cool Grass

2008-12-31T18:18:00.000-05:00

Depressed about the market? Up the creek
With bad investments? Honking up stale stuff,
Attempting to expel the crap with snuff
That someone left behind? Is it too weak
To do the job? When you begin to speak
Are people looking like they've had enough
And bailing? Is the skin on your palms rough
And unappealing? Does the ceiling leak?

I know you hoped some answers would appear
Like magic, but the magic is all gone
And nothing's left but heartaches from now on,
Unappetizing and intensely drear,
And if you've been depressed, and of ill cheer,
Lie down and mope, there, on your neighbour's lawn.

Retail Credit

2008-12-28T09:11:00.000-05:00

I bought some cooked beef ribs, to take them home
For lunch today, then left them in the store.
With all my other shopping, so much more
Than I could carry, I began to foam
Around the mouth like a daft forest gnome
With hoof-and-mouth disease. Just past my door
I dropped my heavy parcels on the floor,
Then went through them, as with a fine-toothed comb.

No ribs. I called the cashier, who agreed
This sad, egregious error I had made
Was irreversible, but then she played
The retail trump card: in my hour of need
They'll credit me with what I paid. My screed
Is ended, all my grievances will fade.

Profitably Spent

2008-12-23T16:21:00.001-05:00

While in a bank line with my wife today,
We saw a man who must have had a hunch:
Arriving early, found the guy at lunch,
And sat down pleasantly for a long stay.
I thought perhaps there's something I should say,
But he seemed happy there, as pleased as punch,
So why get our silk panties in a bunch?
I smiled back, and remained above the fray.

Our own appointment started somewhat late,
But only seven minutes, and the time
Is profitably spent now, on this rhyme
About the day's slow passage. I would state
Some meaningful deep thought, but it's just fate
That sends us into banks, for thrift or crime.

Unseen Sword

2008-12-18T08:46:00.000-05:00

Before the subway train had reached St. Clair,
I looked up from the Russell Hoban book
That I was reading, and began to look
Across at this sweet girl with dark brown hair
Whose hand-held something – cell phone? – made her stare
And start. She violently leaned and shook
One! two! three! times, then stood up straight and took
Herself and her device right out of there.

It looked completely weird and untoward,
The way she shook three times, convulsively
While sitting on the train across from me,
As if she'd been held down and neatly gored.
I looked for villains with an unseen sword,
But nobody was there that I could see.

The Dreams We're Having Now

2008-12-11T16:17:00.000-05:00

The dreams we're having now are just the start
Of something bitter and unsure, the rim
Of the volcano, cup filled to the brim
With dregs. What isn't keeping us apart
Is scaring us, what isn't queerly tart
Is stale and bland, but full of empty vim
And hints of vinegar, a sort of hymn
To unease, full of bathos, without art.

At last, the deeper truths will be unveiled:
Distraught, repressed, we'll see monstrosities
Committing newly dreamed atrocities
Unhappily, recalling loves that failed,
Embarrassments, fresh, harsh, highly detailed,
And accidents at high velocities.

Facing the Night

2008-12-07T09:27:00.000-05:00

I promise to be brave. I'll face the night,
You'll see my smile when stars are growing dim
And time is short. Whenever things look grim
My courage rises and I bring a light
To unswept hallways where I used to fight,
And now I pray. I know a secret hymn;
The fellow that I once tore limb from limb
Knows it as well. Together we recite:

Your ancient ways are not our current ways.
Here, now, we understand that loss and grief
Are just the other face of sweet relief.
We had been waiting here for several days;
Now we are gone. Our foreheads are ablaze
With what we know now: fever is a thief.

Hello Again

2008-11-27T15:44:00.000-05:00

Impressive as it is, your ignorance
Is not complete, but just as well might be,
As wide as summer skies, deep as the sea,
Spectacular as gross incontinence
Supported by unceasing flatulence.
I know you didn't want to hear from me,
But here I am, facing your poverty
Of knowledge, sympathy, and competence.

We're neither of us harmless or benign.
Benighted? Sure. Bemused? Yes, and beset
By demons, dogs, and dimwits. We're in debt
And in denial, hoping for a sign
That something will turn up. Here's where you shine,
The feckless optimist. I've brought a net.

The End of My Indifferent State

2008-11-19T10:46:00.000-05:00

I reached the end of my indifferent state
When Becky was suspended by her hair
Above an overturned black Windsor chair
Beside the window nearest the front gate.
The ignorant, ignoble reprobate,
Her father, simply left the window bare
So passersby could ogle at her there.
I drew the curtains, stood up on a crate,

And got her down before her mother saw,
Not knowing whether she might disagree
With what I did that day, especially
As her own feelings always seemed so raw.
The episode was sticking in my craw,
And I was spurred to action, finally.