Dreaming about me…

I was awakened from a dream,

a dream about me – they’re always

about me it seems, not just that

I’m in them, but they’re about me

like the axis of the world is always

under my feet, all eyes turn to me,

all words are meant to be heard

by me as if pulled by my gravity,

and yet I never speak, never

utter a word, space shrinks

close and closer, faces approach,

the ground and sky too, and

just as it is all to be enveloped

in me I am awakened, and

I speak but no one hears me,

the sky opens forever, faces

of friends and family withdraw,

no grasping avails, no breath

is inhaled feeling the spin of

others’ worlds, the pull of

true gravity I lean back into

myself just to keep from falling.

Plato’s Plenitude…

platoI’m not one to believe in it – that
there is a fullness that aches to be so
and all possibilities must and will become real
with time a self-contained, single story
moving from point A to point B with no Z
and everything is as it should be and this
is the hero’s story we call history where
every mother’s cry for child lost is akin to
the happenstance of a good parking spot,
longing and impatience are virtue-less,
love is shortsighted selfishness which is
but a cheap imitation that mocks us
and every accident is only so to those
who aren’t God and therefore don’t know
these are the mistakes we call life
for which we must ask forgiveness.

Life’s a Stage…

StageIf life’s a stage, then I am sitting in the audience
toward the back on the left side, wondering
when the intermission will begin and if
there will be enough time to go to the bathroom,
and maybe get something to eat but the play
just keeps going and going without stop
and here I am, fidgeting and squirming
and praying for the end until I remember
this is life and I want to see what happens next.

Come to an End

All things come to an end
this is the way of the living,
the happy and the dying;
the fight itself is noble, yet
will be lost, defiance is
to rage and flail and fail,
ignorance is to toddle,
immaturely, in darkness
in blind, avoiding hope,
sadness is surrender,
futility begets sorrow,
censure yields mockery
but eulogy is salvation for
it gives the end to all things
and all things come to an end.

As a Door…

DoorLaziness is unloved,
it’s beauty found in restraint,
rhythm of hinges living in axis

a door mocked by wisdom
tainted by a sluggard,
praise ignored by pique
consumed with geography
dissatisfied with simplicity,

joyfully humble, unassuming
as life’s passage, its guard
which all must pass, often

while content and framed,
on hinges it only turns
in the boredom of life.

Praise or Pity

StarsAre we to be praised or pitied?

Creatures starring at stars

dreaming of loves dear lost

hoping as death takes us

every day, each and every day;

living long enough, across enough

to share the love we knew

with those whom we wish to know

that we loved as we were loved.

Selective Service

selectiveI’m old enough to know what it’s like
to register for the Selective Service
when there was still a draft and a daft
man who might spill my blood in sand
to fuel his V-8 aspirations of a second term;
my hands were trembling, legs heavy,
I couldn’t swallow or write my name
legibly and the man told me “We
still know who you are, you know,
even if you don’t write your name
so we can read it” and laughing
nervously I prayed it wasn’t true.


Every writer wishes,
wishes he would have
known Hemingway, at
least for a day, sometime
after Old Man and the
Sea and before the Clinic,
between young, pure
desire and the paranoid
cynic; but not in Africa
for when that story’s
told the pain of failed
flights gets old and
undoes the personality
of liquor, staccato and
brevity; oh Ernest, what
had become that was
undone in Ketchum.




SeatsImagine your life, and mine as well,

was written to be erased

and that’s what is called history,

a great lie that billions of us are

explained in the violence of heroes,

here or there at someone else’s

great home run just sitting

in section D, seat 32 or 33

or wherever – it doesn’t matter,

a seat sat in by so many, many others

who were plumbers or truck drivers,

mothers or eager kids with mitt ready

hoping for a foul ball that never

comes our way, but we never forget

we were there even if someone

sweeps away our rubbish and sells another

ticket for another game on another

day for someone else to sit in.

Again, again, again…

lines bookThe marks have no moral,

they know no stories,

nor me or mine,

no memories surfacing

in the quiet of the day’s ebb

haunting and mocking what can’t

be changed by dreams,

they are carried along

as the wave of the page turns slowly

to the next leaving anyone

reading to wonder

who writes this way,

not how but why;

and the way the words go

becomes a prophecy

because it is a path

leading to another nowhere

ready to mean something,

to be noticed

and maybe even remembered

enough to justify

a child’s plea to read it again,

again, again, and again.