The sun rises out
of the asphalt
near graffitied walls
and oceans of broken glass
another day of basketball
has begun.
Urban waifs dribble
between legs
around opponents
towards the basket
the only goal
that matters
fake and leap
find nothing but sky
rim and net.
All day
every day
they do battle
in the playgrounds
dreams of
shoe deals
trading cards
championship rings
are secondary
to the game
the game
this game
is paramount
It doesn't matter
that the only audience
is a stray cat
defense is called for
elbow and shoulder
every trick necessary
to make it
to the basket.
Men past fifty
play on the next court
but only on Sunday.
They move a little slower
than the kids
don't jump as high
but play with the same
guts and heart
despite knee braces
and graying hair.
They are passed dreams
that start and end
in childhood
but hold true
to self evident truths
that even children know
this game is life
this game is breath
this game is all
a red sun bouncing
across a black sky
towards eternal destiny
and hitting nothing but net.
Rats
rats run the show
they scurry through congress
and boardrooms
as if they were running
through alleys and basements
rats stare at you
with beady eyes
twirling their tails
when you look for a job
and laugh behind your back
after showing you the door.
rats take your money
and make it theirs.
rats take your lovers
and eye your children.
rats squeal “he did it”
and point a finger
in your direction
knowing all the time
that they are guilty
of the crime.
rats are everywhere.
they are after your votes,
your pensions,
your savings.
they are after
your values,
your ideas,
your used Toyota.
and no one seems to have
a big enough cat
or a trap with a spring
that's fast enough
to shut them down.
Child's Play
bullets whiz past
the hopscotch court.
they are not meant for you.
if they take you out
it is by accident.
take no offense.
the shooter is a cousin
of someone on the street
and the victim is cousin
to another neighbor
so no one will talk
to the authorities.
cars race by
with rolled down windows.
the flash of gun.
more bodies fall
parents pull their kids indoors
but thy won't stay there long,
children need to play
so out they go
riding bikes and skipping rope
and finding empty
nickel bags
and plastic stems from
a rose not meant
to symbolize love.
the boys on the corner
are a little older
they have graduated
to more dangerous games
playing lookout
transporting or selling.
the young men with
colors on their heads
share a common swagger.
they are always searching
for new soldiers.
there is always a need,
so many fall
to bullets or police batons.
Iraq is far away
Afghanistan even farther
but who has need
of foreign wars
when you live
in a domestic one
twenty four seven.
Sacred Victims
some
lives are destined for sacrifice
chosen at the beginning of time
to bear the weight of the world's sins:
the twelve year old boy
advertised for sex by his parents
to help them climb out of poverty,
the girl injected with drugs
by her father launched
into a life of addiction,
little ones left behind
because they run too slow
when the fire rages
or the waves come
reaching higher than the roof.
if not demanded by a loving God
there must be some other deity
that requires so much hell.
another earthquake.
another flood
another army drafting
child warriors
to torture and maim
or wear belts laden
with explosives.
there is a hunger
that mere death cannot satisfy.
existence itself must be grisly
and the mere thought of it
must make you wince.
God Save The Animals
The
sun has risen in my palm,
I lift it toward the sky.
I set the birds,
found in a drawer,
onto branches high.
I teach the clouds to drive
their vehicles of fog
wherever the wind calls
and teach every raindrop
when and how to fall.
My body may be a cage,
my life a prisoner's fate,
but in the hours left to me
I can still play God for a spate.
Let land and ocean tremble
as I rock this bed
for who can rival
what's inside me
until I turn stone dead.
What Is Lost When The Alarm Sounds
pulling the sheets
over my head as a shroud,
a last ditch effort to remember
all the dreams that have escaped,
fails before it starts
as eyelids sag
and the mind drifts
to other things
frightening, gorgeous, fulfilling,
all sculpted like a question mark,
a sensation needing an answer
that can not be found
as eyes race beneath lids
left/right, right/left.
Learning Grace
There was an old priest
who taught theology
in my high school.
He always had a bottle
of 7 – Up on his desk.
He taught that grace
was a gift from god
that can be obtained
from partaking
in the sacraments.
One day we had a new teacher.
Our priest had been sent
to a rehab center.
His 7 – Up bottles
had been filled with gin.
What grace comes from this?
A drunken man's sense of balance
as he weaves along the street,
negotiating the pitfalls
that arise from the cracks
in the sidewalk?
Maybe that is all
the grace we need,
and a strong drink
the only blessing
we can obtain.
Receiving The Word
I
was raised
to worship the cross
and feel like one crucified.
The nail marks
in my hands
are poor reminders
of my lost faith.
I still wince
driving by churches
on seeing the lines
of young and old
dressed in Sunday finery
rushing to kneel
at the altar,
listen to the word of god
as intoned by wretchedly void
old and lonely men.
I pity the priests
even as a I pity myself,
poor believers
in something greater
then themselves,
victims of an overriding passion
which separates them
from the crowd that looks on,
gasps, nods, stands,
sings at the appropriate time.
The word of life for me
is not found in a crust of bread,
but in the sound of words themselves.
That is why I became a poet,
to raise these words
to grace your mind.
Celestial Chaperon
The sun is gone
and I am alone.
The moon is no
companion,
but friendlier
than the sun
who never blinks
or looks the other way.
I need a more forgiving
guardian,
who will just nod
and understand
the being that I am.
Life Without Coffee
The mists of dawn
fade by noon
and with them go
the lingering hopes,
the thoughts that came
with dreams.
Toiling under
the noon sun,
the night is long gone
and the evening ahead
is too far off.
With the passage of time
all things are possible.
Mountains may rise
and wear away,
losers can become winners
and love can be eternal.
But who has time
to wait and watch
for these events
to unfold?
Just pack up your daydreams
in your old kit bag
and smile, smile, smile.
about that
guy
the crazy man in the mirror
keeps giving me the finger.
I have half a mind
to draw a mustache on him
the next time he appears
to show him who's boss.
I won't be intimidated
by mere images
while there still is
a little substance
left in my life.
Interrupting The Stream
Toes
in the water attract fish
that nibble more than they should.
Soon I will need to rise
and start again,
pushing the boulder that goes nowhere,
a chip off the block, a piece of the rock,
cousin to the mountain
to be eroded with a glance
or passed by undisturbed.
What Floats
By
Resting by the river,
I catch glimpses of the past
as it washes down to the sea,
and wait for the river itself
to unravel like a ribbon
and disappear back
into mountain and cloud.
Need Duct Tape?
If
the world is broken
who will dare to fix it?
Humpty Dumpty was round
as this blue green pebble,
yet armies and merchants
and all the greatest minds
could not solve that riddle.
The patches are coming apart.
Cloth is turning to rag.
If you can sew, sew fast
before the garment of our lives
gets tossed in the trash.
Apart
It
is rare to see you any more,
once no stranger at my door.
We may pass in the street some days,
wave and go our separate ways.
In the railroad parking lot,
I often see your small red car,
but you're never in the driver seat.
Our fated schedules were off a bit.
We still seem to travel close,
yet we always travel far.
Without Parallel
There is an illusion
with parallel lines
that they join into one
with distance and time.
The fact is they remain
separate forever,
never drawing closer
or gaining greater insight.
So it is and has been
with you and I.
Long we have traveled
our separate paths
often within sight of each other,
but never close enough
to understand
or achieve true intimacy.
We continue mirroring
each others movements
ignoring the noise
that sometime emanates
from orifices.
And so it seems
we shall continue
until we merge
with that distant spot
on the horizon
and become one
with oblivion.
At The Glacier
I
sleep with an iceberg,
warmed by its frost.
Light dances and changes color
against blue-white skin.
I remain hopeful,
ever hopeful
for a slight thaw
or sudden crack
that will change the world
and crush me with beauty.
Faded Willow
a fragile willow
creaks in the wind
soon it will tumble
trunk and limb
dry and barren branches
mark its age
once it was supple
now it is in decay
with popping joints
and inflamed hands
an old man bids adieu
before the long walk
home.
In Praise of Search
Engines
Before the Internet
I never knew
I was a Civil War General,
an admiral,
a comedian,
a psychologist,
a scientist,
a nuclear power plant.
I didn't know
I sold stocks
or sold shoes
or chased after God
in Armenia.
All I knew was my name.
The composite self,
the corporate being
that my name entailed
was yet to be found.
Now that it has arrived
I praise the search engine
for making it clear
that all my childhood dreams
were achieved
somewhere, by me,
or a close facsimile.
