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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
  • About

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  • perpetual transition

    by

    irony, life, liminal, metaphor, poetry, thinking

    like standing at a bus stop waiting to go
    downtown to see that band you know
    the cool one you had saved up for all summer
    at that crappy job and your pinhead boss
    because tickets were outrageously expensive
    which meant few of your cool friends would be
    there probably just those rich posers from
    the west side who only like that one song
    from the radio anyway then it starts to rain
    and you have no umbrella because who carries
    umbrellas like you were English or something
    and the bus was supposed to arrive a few minutes
    after  you left the house and those few minutes
    have moved passed without the bus arriving so
    the rain is crushing your happiness like gum
    wrappers we used to throw at each other in geometry
    class which drove Mrs. Janak bat-shit even if you were
    figuring out the right angle to take in order to smack
    Wayne upside his head the smarmy little red-neck
    that he was but the rain doesn’t really matter anyway
    because it has slacked off a bit and you are going
    to see that band the really cool one whose name
    for some reason has slipped away like lizards
    down a wall and into the rosemary bush nearby
    so you reach into your pocket to check on the ticket
    for the like nine billionth time since you walked
    out of the house when an old junked out car
    slams past going like a hundred and ten miles
    per hour through the puddle of water next to the bus
    stop where you are waiting and it throws up
    the entire puddle like a blanket over your head
    and there you are wet in every crevice of your being
    as if you just slipped from the womb placenta oozing
    behind you like puppies after their mom when you
    realize your ticket to that band you know has also
    become soaked and the ink has begun to run like squid
    escaping an attack so much so as to become illegible
    even if you could read a bus schedule to see the bus
    was never coming today and you become old and
    your ability to distinguish one moment from the next
    like the one time promise of your life has diminished
    to such a degree that the difference between will and
    memory has blurred into the spray of my passing car
    (April 26, 2013)

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  • “love is not love. . .”

    by

    audacity, conversation, irony, life, literature, love, poetry, sonnets

    I don’t know, Willy:
    unless a tailor
    adjusts a seam
    the suit does not fit.
    Many ships are fixed
    on silent sea floors;
    stars whirl above them
    lost and unconcerned.
    Youth and beauty change
    as love changes too;
    love alters as life
    alters with us all.
    If this be error?
    Our loves will tell.
    (April 26, 2013)

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  • Upon Waking Eros Whispers a Line to Erato Then Flees

    by

    dream, fragments, hope, love, obsessions, poetics, poetry

    to run
    my tongue
    along
    the salty
    savor
    of your
    skin
    then
    find
    myself
    enwrapped
    within
    (April 25, 2013)

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  • Fall

    by

    life, middle-age, paradigm shifts, poetry

    Another bit disperses
    like dandelions to wind,
    as if my mind were leaves
    lifting from branch tip,
    one leaf at a time
    like my thoughts,
    into the autumnal air
    second by second,
    until only the skeleton
    of the tree remains,
    stripped bare.
    (April 24, 2013)

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  • 40. Wearing Air

    by

    identity formation, poetry, relationships

    April 24, 1995
    Riding in a Cadillac
    does not suit me – –
    Ostentation attracts thieves.
    I fool myself with acquaintances;
    my friends are close- –
    Do I risk alienation?

    (from “My Book of Changes” 1994-1995)

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  • Fragments of Water

    by

    life, obsessions, paradigms, poetry, thinking, writing


    1
    an opening
    like an eye,
    or a break
    in a levee:
    water flows
                           
    it is not necessary that one follow;
    yet, close attention to the mundane details
    will yield more than if one simply floats along
    without any regard to the signs placed here
    The details drive one
    to tangential or diverting
    distraction: pay too much
    attention and like kaleidoscopes
    one’s view expands geometrically
    to minutia, while disregard
    debilitates with self-satisfied
    smugness: either, solidifies inertia
    into a prison’s wall.
    Between obsession and ignorance
    lies the open gate.
    Presently – –
    the midpoint is never as precise
    as math wants to make it
    either too little or too much
    it shifts – –
    the water recedes
    the breach heals
    the river resumes its contented flow
    I’m floating downstream
    a leaf from the twirl of air
    alights to spin between rock and froth
    With a lackadaisical attention span
    my mind wanders where it will.
    Where it starts to where it is
    connected by the tangential
    trail it haphazardly followed
    looping back like those water cycle
    posters in third grade where
    the sea becomes the clouds raining
    on the mountains ad infinitum
    until any will I might have had
    evaporates into whimsical steam

    (from Fragments of Water, 2004-2006)

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  • Regrets

    by

    acceptance, hope, life, love, metaphor, poetry, writing

    Once again
    I’m too tired
    to write anything
    that can cohere
    beyond this apology
    for something
    I cannot do;
    yet long for,
    as if I were
    a younger man
    on a first date
    bending for your kiss.
    (April 2013)

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  • my mother myself

    by

    family, irony, memory, poetry

    “When I stopped seeing my mother through the eyes of a child, I saw the woman who helped me give birth to myself.”
    –Nancy Friday


    It was the decades of her need and guilt
    which drove me madly through life, even now
    that she’s dead and scattered these past years.
    How long does it take to slough off the last
    of the omphalos blood, the bloody cowl,
    that first transformation of sperm and egg?
    In a photo before Lisa and I
    took off for Europe, she sat in her chair
    in the rumpled tidiness of her home,
    her brow furrowed in a mastered worry,
    her hand cupped to her mouth as if in shock:
    this morning, I saw myself sit that way.

    (April 2013)

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  • Eros Sits In Between

    by

    hope, life, love, obsessions, poetry

    not the here or there
    yet somewhere other
    than either or more
    not a fixed point but
    always beyond the finger
    tip’s outstretched touch
    (April 2013)

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  • Dream Journal # 7: Three Visitors

    by

    conversation, dream, life, memory, metaphor, poetry

    he holds his secrets
    like shards of broken glass:
    an ogre as a woman
    sits down and sighs,
    “Listen to my story,
    Listen to my cries.”
    An ogre as a tree approaches
    sending roots beneath the ground,
    “What words grow here?
    Why would you even care?”
    An ogre as a parable
    insinuates his whispers,
    “I can help if you let me
    control what you hear.”
    he stands as if to go;
    blood drips  to the ground.
    (April 2013)

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  • Mom and Dad at Dinner

    by

    family, life, storytelling

    our endless chatter
    a teasing needle
    like a sewing machine in reverse
    eventually ripping seams
    where there were none
    Dad, worn from work and age,
    would explode,
    rough-neck invectives
    washing over us
    drowning our noise
    tapping his rough hand lightly
    “Now Ralph,” Mom would offer
    our levee against the deluge.

    (from “fragments of water, 2004-2006)

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  • Two Haiku

    by

    life, paradigms, poetry, work

    The cottonwood’s limb
    cracks and crashes to the ground;
    I’m worn by the day.
    **
    I watch my students
    struggle with these simple texts;
    each life starts anew.

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  • Killing the Father

    by

    dream, early work, love, memory, poetry

    His last breath hung in the air
    like frost holding the room still.
    The pudding-thick phelgm, I pulled
    from his mouth, fell from my fingers
    like ice almost melting.
    And still he comes:
    a face rises
    to melt and tatter
    as if hot glass
    blown by wind.
    It remains Christmas.
    His arm stilled by stroke
    lies across the starched
    tablecloth, a tombstone
    tumbled into snow.
    The tree’s lights blink
    unfocused.  He stares, waits.
    The room is cold.
    I wait in the corner.
    Spittle fails to lash his lips
    as he opens his mouth to speak;
    his face blurs, shifts like lava.
    A rumble swells his throat,
    pushes up to his mouth,
    twists across his tongue
    to erupt past teeth
    gnarled like fingers.
    Unlike a shout.
    (Summer 1990, Bread Loaf)

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  • like a flurry of wind in the corner

    by

    hermenutics, life, literacy, literature, love, obsessions, poetry, romance

    he knows as well as she in novels
    that deflection onto other’s tales
    never masks the true protagonist
    and a melodramatic dénouement
    to an over-complicated plot
    will only fall eventually into farce
    all the misunderstood narratives
    because misunderstood remain
    broken threads beneath a loom
    yet still the tale he tells so clearly
    differs enough from her by degrees
    to cause his clichéd story to collapse
    he wants to offer more than infidelity
    yet knows how these stories unfold
    so withholds his true exegesis
    (April 2013)

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  • 3. Differentiate and Blend

    by

    early work, hope, identity formation, storytelling

    December 26, 1995
    The swirl and unfurl of the past
    follows no pattern, except now.
    The future lies less entangled with
    meanings than with hope’s dreams.
    I hold these multifoliate strands
    weaving my patterns on a wind.

    (from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995)

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