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)