One who’s written verses all his life picks out what he thinks of as
the best of the lot to prove he hasn’t just come by it lately
Until, pressed for posterity, he carves on stone: Here Lies
Author of a Badly Cobbled Chapbook of Poetry

(march 17, 18, 2010)


Any time will do, except when it’s any Moe’s intention to
drop by, simply to pick up on some conversation left hanging
the last time; let it be as for a hangman’s entertainment
reviewing notes on Homer (on the ladder, willing)

(march 14, 17, 2010)


On sale? Is it state of the art? What does the warranty cover?
It comes with a remote of course, yes? And the batteries?
At the appliance store, old man makes good of small time (saving more
for sage home diversions when feckless, pekpek-less besides)

(march 7, 14, 2010)


Pretty soon it’ll be someone else’s turn—with a little luck
the bell’ll toll next for somebody baiting it, raring to go
The old guards’ way was to rage against the dying of the light
Whose sons be they now romancing their berth to limbo?

(february 27, 28, march 14, 2010)


With as little as possible plot the constellation of your life
Take the givens, irreversible details between your birth
and wherever planet you’ve proceeded from at the moment
The rest you chart, how to crash with grace or get home safe

(february 26, 28, 2010)


No philosopher is he: ha! inveterate apprentice there
No poet either: overageing versifier’s more like it
How he perishes by such honorifics that fiercely spur
soulward: oh so implodes, fizzles Herr Fluke Laureate

(february 23, 2010)


If nobody’s watching, then convenient it is to fall
Never as now has the edge been the best spot to the pit
Resist all temptation to inspire awe in getting at it caught
Take good care not to disturb, not even the bystander called Soul

(february 18, 20, 23, 2010)


You have always thought you were good at melancholia
You practiced at it in youth, so steeped raw in rebel bile
You took pains then to die young, to leave this world clues that you were pure
You overstayed, decaying, sadly clutching prescriptions for cure

(february 16, 17, 2010)


“Gabbo!” the new master names the dog—after rogue dummy foisted to take down
Krusty for good, if not for Homer’s meddlesome yet well-meaning brats to save clown
from certain ruin; turns out mongrel’s a bitch, and the master already owns “Garbo”

(january 26, february 2, 4, 2010)


Three meters by one-and-a-half, more or less, hardly is space
enough for anything but flat, idle points to raise

Cyphers swirl, his forty-five cycles of seasons drowning against
her twenty-two at surface

He seeks depth, she yields yet for ascent

(january 6, february 1, 2, 2010)


And the front door startles dawn sprawled in rich, scattered leavings
of the dog’s overnight bout of gnashing and gnawing at cardboard
(discarded boxes), plastic (bags, beverage and water bottles), leather
(old shoes), rubber (unmatched, thinned out flip-flops), soul (whose?)

(january 4, 2010)


What is there new to learn today? Count on forty-five years
Same old fears, lusts at tug-of-war, wearing, tearing the mind
Life, by now, is a precious grasp at a thin line of thread; let slip
days early, muddled, and latter—see clearly through shreds, tears perhaps

Dread is not knowing what to do, drudgery is mindless doing
The middle way is inaction’s riot, blind effort’s grinding rest
This treatise opens for no avenue towards healing
This passage offers no solution to score in life’s test

The rest of the year is here, the count goes on down as days are fed
to the past; more and more the eyes are starved for light, the skin
is parched for what may be left of tears, tone-deaf to both joy and grief
Only the taste in blood of rust cum dust from hereon in

One way to go, without explanation, is to just go
Like time, cherished or wasted, that comes with no stamp of “Best Before:”
Like wine, whatever vintage, that fruits forth from emptied glass
Desire no more and expire, wither like there never was a rose

(december 12, 15, 16, 21, 30, 2009)


He thinks all the world about her
whether in his world with her in it
or without her (as seems always the case)

Whether in her world with him in it
or outside (after she took back her keys)
he tells the whole world about her

His world means her because

(december 14, 16, 2009)


What is there new to learn today?

Count on forty-five years
same old fears, lusts at tug-of-war
wearing, tearing the mind

Life, by now, is a precious grasp
at a thin line of thread

Let slip early, muddled, and latter
days—see clearly perhaps
through shreds, tears

(december 9, 10, 12, 2009)


Dread is not knowing what to do, drudgery is mindless doing
The middle way is inaction’s riot, blind effort’s grinding rest
This treatise opens to no avenue towards healing
This passage offers no solution to score in life’s test

(december 6, 2009)


One way to go, without
explanation, is to just go

Take time, cherished or wasted, it comes
with no stamp of “Best Before:”

Take wine, whatever vintage, it fruits
forth in emptied glass

Desire no more and expire, wither
like there never was a rose

(december 5, 2009)


His daughter has started calling him “dude”

When he takes her to work she hears
every other person call him “sir”
and him “sir” or “ma’am” back at them

She knows that none of them are bosses
that he and they are just bossed around

Above all she calls him “dad”

(december 2, 2009)


She amuses herself and humors him:
the band always loses

the girl in every song
(what goes on her cellphone’s playlist)

Ah girl (sigh), there’s another one
with a ticket to ride

Would that his daughter stay twelve
for him to drive to school forever

(december 1, 2, 2009)


If one strikes the creative type, be it pugilistic
or pacific, or if one casts a stroke of genius, God knows from
what depths of madness or sleight of charm—stay safe in quiet
puzzlement, praise, or awe. Art is already your one hand clapping

(november 2009)


The live report stuns and devastates
at either end of the line

The dead pause after the account
locks in awkward sadness

Sifting through the tale’s rubble
troubled teller

and halted hearer
stagger apart for the end call key

(november 2009)


The rest of the year reeks here
                                                                   The count goes on down
                                                                                                                          as days are fed

to the past
                           More and more are the eyes starved for light
                                                                                                                           The skin

is parched for what may be left of tears
                                                                                    tone-deaf to both joy and grief

Only the taste in blood of dust cum rust from hereon in

(november 2009)


Lately there is leaving
before midnight makes it
on any street

More are spoiled beans
to take home than were spilled
for the track back

Lately it is always Sunday
tomorrow and faint psalms

Coins these days are dead
weight while bills flash dive
jolly up the church pouch

(november 2009)


Someone will take that fragment of yours
(the last you leave behind)

He will shed a last fragment of his own
for the next one to pick up

There will always be fragments
enough to go around

But the crucial fragment
cancels the need for another map

(october 2009)


Cat is constantly harassed by lurking strays
—now its left foreleg is broken

Pup is in hot pursuit of its flea-stung tail

They take turns lapping up the other’s
designated pan of food

Puckish pup pounces about, bumping
against torpid cat

(september 2009)


There’s one of them near
the end of their days
who most need reminding

because they tend to forget
that there’ll never be again

a first day of one’s life
or that taste from one’s first kiss
—of heaven

That he needs another drink
is a thought most sobering

(july, august 2009)


He awakes, unsurprised
he’s awake, awaiting
to be shaken

by the alarm clock
that ticks seconds
towards his waking

Sometimes he’s alert
enough to arise
to abort the whole thing

He stakes his claim
of the morning
—if hungover even

(july, august 2009)


The leaves that fell overnight are swept
and stashed compact in the can

Sometimes, of a day, the sortie
before dusk hits payload

that is fed to the plastic wrap in which
the pressed uniforms came

from laundry service last Saturday
—day garbage gets hauled

(august 2009)