But Crumbs

I don't
remember the shift-
the calender
or a moment- sudden,
that it happened.

It was subtle
as dusk
transforming
to darkness,
simple as
a crush
on a cousin
and then
gone again,
or middle age
with no borders
marked clear
you just
look up and
astonished you
are here
like a silly
entrance map
of a mid-west
mall, ignored
by those
experienced
and over-whelming
to the uninitiated.

Like shadows
leaping
and dancing
gray on rain
drizzled days
never fully
flying
free from my
feet steady
marching
on.


My fathers
hand veined
and tanned-
accented a
thousands milk
white scars
visible
only under
harsh illumination
of a vanity
bathroom light-


grips the razor
I have had since
a Fathers Day
a million
tears ago.
The mother
of my children
surprising me then
and them too-
too small to know.


My fathers face
scraped gently
a song

skrrrt
skrrt
skrrt

of coarse
grey whiskers
whisked gently
away

chased down
the drain
by the water
that rinses
my razor that
shaves

the face of my father

looking from
the mirror
at me.

And I cannot
say sure
when it
happened though
it is troubling
as near curdled
milk with a pending
experation date,
my cookies
and yesterdays
are nothing
but crumbs
brushed so
easily from
the lap.

I find the
knowing has
developed slow
as mountains
arching their backs

I am
an old man.

If not lonely,
certainly alone.

An old man certain to die

alone.

Snickering Spirits: Slick as Snot Down There

The angels laugh

at us,
for ever
giving a
flightless
fuck about
love.

They go
unseen behind
mere mortals
making faces
and
holding their
sides

splitting open
with raucous
guffaws:
mad
falterings
of wings.

They sneer
at our best
songs;
our
most sexy-
subtle subtext
scarcely hidden
in poor poems
embarrassingly
human.

Seraphs nod
and wink
to Cherubim,
who have never
even seen a bow
and arrow,
and never
had any
interest
in this thing
we call love
to begin with.

I have heard they have no junk-

genitals if you will-

and while I am as yet
unprepared to
surrender mine,

I can see where things
might be simpler,
and a sense of humor
suffice to serve.

The Franzia Correlation

Neon glow
accented smiles
and clever
talk of
writers and
soft serve
politics.


Barefoot Moscato
philosophers
telling me
about Travon
and I wonder
if all the
ones who still
have hope
and great asses
ever get
the news
anywhere but
Facebook.


One more
bourbon
followed by
one more
beer followed
by one more
heart felt
nod, to justice
and Mother Nature,
and equality
for all.



Finally she asks
to see my place,
and we stop
at the liqour store
on the corner.


I grab a
cardboard
container
of Franzia and
wonder if
the shitty wine
in the
throw-away
box
isn't some kind
of metaphor
for the love
I make.

The Last

This is the last
love poem
I will write
for you.

Four A.M.
and I cannot
recall the words
of the poem
I dreamed,

though I
remember the
small printed
ink and
the way I
hurried it down
in a stenographer's
note pad
across the
paint splattered
table from
you, and the
doughnut holes
that you brought
me every
Tuesday in
that ridiculous
car that you
have driven
since high school.

I sit awake
searching for
the words
that came
so easily in
my slumber-
causing you
pause,
to give me
head cocked
smiles of
adoration.

I strain to
remember
the words or
 even the
feelings, even
the love. I
am angered
at the loss.


This is the last
love poem
that I will
write you,
though I
promised you
10,000,
it is only
me that cares
and I send
them out
empty,
a death
not fitting
poetry or
love songs
written at
four A.M..

This is the last,
love poem
I will
write.

They Sicken

"They sicken of the calm who know the storm."
                                                       Dorothy Parker


They sicken of the calm
who know the storm,
it holds no promise.

The calm is a
black hole sucking
life in.

The storm is Life,
twisting, screaming
and dancing near Death.

Once you have
counted coup on
codeine and car wrecks,

been shot at and missed
every good thing
seems mundane.

Reality stands no chance
when sharpened point imaginings
soar infinitely.

The coolest green grass
of contentment is no memory
compared to swimming
the crashing surf of melancholy.

Those who know the storm
cringe against days blinding rays
but are comforted at the breast
of darkest night.

The Stars Weep With Longing

Even the stars

wept

with longing 

for the Lady.

Her every move

strings and bells

and 

Sirens song.

The poet had

freed 

her from a 

stifling  affair

with a 

pirate who had

stolen her 

away from

a Kingdom 

she was 

ordained to 

serve.

She had 

fallen in love,

when he

accomplished

this feat 

with niether

pistol or sword

but only

the power 

of his 

clever words.

And  

he with her

centuries before,

some say 

the beginning 

of time,

at the birth

of the stars.

In the brilliance

of daylight

he would gaze

at her, 

the tilt of her 

head, the bend

of her wrist,

he would

relish in

the peal of her

laughter.

And he would 

write verses

never ending

proclaiming 

the feelings

he'd always 

known.

In the comfort

of night he 

would trace 

her naked 

shoulders with

fingertips

and tell her

stories of 

the lives 

he had lived,

and he would kiss

gently her

nape, and she

would settle

into the arms

that had

held her,

since the moon 

was young.

Each Day You Give Me Light

Each morning
I bid good day
to the sun
and I admire
her brilliance.
I feel her warmth
and I am
pleased again
to be near
at her rising.

Each evening
I look on her
beauty as she
lays down to bed.
I miss her hope
filled light, but
rest content


she will be with me
again come
morrow.

What I Ask The Stars Upon Laying Down

In a world

full of mysteries

pondered by

far greater men,

greater minds 

than I will 

ever have,

I remain 

steadfastly
oblivious.

I cannot explain

God

or even say 

that I have

not doubted.

Why is there

war,

famine,

children  whose

only company

is painful
abuse?

Am I small

then, 

that I sit back

quietly after

a couple of 

beers 
and wonder 
what it is 
that makes

one person 

fall in love

with another?

What it is 

then,

that would

make her see 

something in

me?

She is beauty.

A princess of

jazz, raised 
at the feet 
of it's greats.
A player
of roles and
singer of songs,
the most 
positive person
I've known.


She is
all Ojai,
and trips
to the beach, 
flash-popping
slow strolls
at red carpet
events and 
slightly disappointed 
that her new
vegan lifestyle
means no more
foie gras in
France.



I am ugly.

The son of
a farmer, 
childhood
shared shoulder
to shoulder
with five 
other kids for
whom work
meant bent backs
and blistered 
hands.


I am the
saddest man
I know, and I 
couldn't shake
the South from 
me if I wanted.
I hunted deer
in my youth,
still love a rare
steak.
I drink beer 
from the can and
did time in
the joint
for a while.


What is it
then,
that the universe
uses to 
decide who
will fall in love
with whom,
that is the 
question
that keeps me
awake. What
makes two
people 
soul-mates?

And what does
she see in me?

A Collect Call From...

A lifetime

ago

the

one phone

hanging with it's

rotary dial

on the kitchen

wall above

a set of canisters

descending

in size

Flour, Sugar, etc.,

rang in a tone

like all

the others.




A collect call,

my father talking

in that clear

precise way

that he had.

That he used

from the pulpit,

or in disciplining

a child.




Who was that?

In those days

we did not often

get phone calls,

I remember my

mothers concern.



Hayden,

my brother said,

and he was the

oldest.



Father hanging

the heavy

Bakelite handset

back in it's

cradle

gently as

a newborn child.



A quiet stillness

settled on us

disturbing us all.

You must never

accept collect

calls from him,

he had told us.

Nothing else.



Because it was

Sunday and

the service was

over we

had eaten our lunch

and my older

brother asked

to borrow

the truck to go

"riding around",



Take your brother

with you,

and my heart lept.

Big brother

shot me

a look as

we walked 

out the door.



Who is Hayden?

I asked my chest

pounding as he

unhid his whiskey

mixing it

expertly with green

Mountain Dew.



My own soda

a rare treat,

clutched tightly

so as not to

get away,



He is our cousin.



Then why don't I

know him,

and he just shook

his head.




He was cool,

a long time ago-

used to come by

and see me

on a motorcycle.

You're probably

too young

to remember.



He is on dope.



Just like that he said,

He is on dope.



I only knew stories.

Hippies jumping from buildings.

They thought they

could fly.




Nothing else was said,

and big brother was cruising.

I stared from the window,

wind in my hair.




All the years later,

and still dirty secrets

of good christian

families with

cousins who fly.




After all of the rehabs

and a couple of

prisons,



I wonder whose

 children

are taught
to screen calls.

I just made it
through it

and Hayden
is dead.