Wednesday, August 31, 2011

detritus of our lives

He slid it open with some difficulty
every kitchen has one, the junk drawer
the detritus of our lives
useless bits of string, too short
rusting paper clips
rubber bands that crumble when touched
pins that once held a new shirt in its wrapper
an instruction book on how to operate a toaster?
who would need instructions for that?
the toaster itself long gone
little black pellets whose origin
he did not want to contemplate
            “antiques road show”? no!
and there among the clumps of dust and sesame seeds
what he was looking for
a gold ring

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

In the drawer

In the drawer
it lies
no pretense to greatness
just a mass of hair
long with a band
still keeping it secured
after 20 years
and it still
glows with purpose

Once it fell across
her breast or lashed
her thighs delightful
now stilled — yet alive
who touches it now
what imagination
can bring you back to life
who knows a part of you
patiently lives in my drawer

Friday, August 26, 2011

the bow tie

I woke in the red morning
to yellow shafts of thoughts
ricocheting off the walls of my skull
bouncing and colliding
like on an unstable billiard table
it was carried on a driving 4-4 beat
the bass player and drummer
vying for dominance
off to the right a lean man
dressed in a white shirt, suspenders
and a bow-tie smiled
as if this all made sense
and seemed to be waiting for me to get it.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

The X Factor

She was called the "IT Girl"
A Real Jazz Baby
Silent Film Mega Star
A True Beauty

New York 1922 was the place for films
When it shifted to the West Coast
Bow followed
Her first part was a Vivacious Audacious Flapper
It set her career aflame

Her brief 10 years in celluloid
Produced over 60 silent films
The Plastic Age
Dancing Mothers
Daughter of Pleasure
Most of these have been lost or destroyed

Oh but those kisses she gave!
They send still a primal thrill
Lustful Deep
I could watch a film of just her kisses

She quit films when sound came in
Clara Bow did not like the confines of sound
She preferred to emote without the bother of words.
The X Factor aint got nuthin on her

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

eggs marks the spot

She stood there with X in her hands
X on her mind
X for Breakfast
Scrambled X
Poached X
X sunny side up
Walking on X shells
What am I X actly talking about here
Rotten X?

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Last egg laid

As I sit here pondering
my ability
to be here and now
with any type 
of creativity

There is only 

one thought


The last egg laid was by me

Thursday, August 18, 2011

a drawing and a memory

this is the view from out of our kitchen window
there’s the barn with hay piled high to the rafters
those cows, a society of steaming breaths
a great sycamore next to the ancient chicken house,
too well built to be called a coop
its inside walls peeling successive coats of whitewash
and that smell which lingers even after
the twenty years since the last egg was laid.
all this is a memory
a memory evoked by that framed drawing
hanging on the wall beside my chair

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The Photograph

It wasn't a fire – It was a flood – Felt like a fire
What to take? What could he take?
Pictures? Clothes?

Hurry the water is almost to your door.
Medicine? Important Papers?

He was an old man. His house was full of things.
They told him his ticker was bad.
Guns? Food?

His wife was dead. His children had disowned him –
all five of them.
Neighbors fled at the sight of him.
Cash? Coin Collection?

In the end he took one thing and one thing only,
a framed photograph that had been hanging in
the same spot for 65 years.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

House Fire

the day that the house burned down
neighbors watched and nodded
children jumped up and down
teenagers cheered from the sidelines
firemen rolled up their hoses
and offered their theories
but it soon became clear
that if two bodies rub together
with that much fury it creates heat
heat enough to burn the house down
but in the end all that was left was
cold ashes

Friday, August 12, 2011


You are special
you are sexy
you are special sexy
get my drift
see my angle
let me take you home

Now here alone
just us two
see how really special 
how very special
you are

The sun shines
you wake up alone
so much for special
so much for very
special sexy

Wednesday, August 10, 2011


Life creeps into the cracks of this wall
this side-hill, anywhere that will support it.
no opportunity is missed
six legged, eight legged things
sun-burned rocks,
let’s not forget the rocks.
we sit open mouthed
at the wonder of it all
how could we ever
imagine that we were special

Tuesday, August 9, 2011


Up the side of the hill
you walk not trudge
it is hot you are tired
flies bite....

down below they doubt
point and laugh
as high as the moon baby,
who do you think you are?

Slowly slowly
you find your footing
slowly slowly
you are high as the moon
slowly slowly
you are untouchable

Slowly slowly

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Gone is Gone

Once when I was sitting alone in a half-lit room, my sister walked out of the closet. It was not a very big closet in a small house built 40 years after her death. I was not afraid. I was comforted. I wept as she sat beside me and put her hand on my shoulder. Then slowly, ever so slowly she faded away. Not a ghost, no visit from the other side, She had as much substance as any other thought. Gone is gone.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

I'm a fool to want you

You are not happy to see me
your face pale
countenance ghostly
is looming

I have been here before
at least lately tolerated

With your body burnt
to cinder
our playground exists
only in my dreams

In casual reverie I steal
those cinders and
put them on my mantle

covetous of your charred
hair and your ashen
sibilant lips
I'm a fool to want you

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Fool for Love

I am a fool for love
I respond to it
I am warmed by it
it pops the cap off my tears
and they flow,
my heart softens and opens
love spills out
flood waters enter
the cracks that separate,
and great glaciers calve into
the salty ocean of tears

Monday, August 1, 2011

I was not mad


I was not mad
I was furious
a furnace of heat 
made mad
by love