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

an old three cent stamp

            “antiques road show”? no!

and there among the clumps of dust and sesame seeds

what he was looking for

a gold ring

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

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.

The X Factor

She was called the "IT Girl"

A Real Jazz Baby

Clara Bow

Actress

Flapper

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

IT

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

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?

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

preeminent:

The last egg laid was by me

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

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.

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

Special

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

wonder

Life creeps into the cracks of this wall

this side-hill, anywhere that will support it.

no opportunity is missed

lichen

moss

flower

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

Slowly

 

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

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.

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
welcomed
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

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

I was not mad

 

I was not mad

I was furious

a furnace of heat 

made mad

by love