JUST LIKE MOTHER USED TO MAKE

Winter’s first snow

lay as thick

as my mother’s meringue


all whippy

and curliqued

fluffy yet firm

I would never eat

the snow on my driveway



I would never eat
my mother’s meringue
either

WINTER

　

Winter

is a dead man’s game

north wind bellowing insults

cutting

stinging

anvil-like solidity

beneath stiffening toes

hunched over like a drunken climber

dodging a glacier’s vengeance

Breath

in vaporous gulps

stammering in January dialect

iron landscapes

severed flatland carcass

spires of ice

hard-shell rapidity

over sun flecked roofs

serrated crescents of frost

marking the windows

sparrows skidding

across crusted canyons

dissected by diagonal planks

of waning light



light starved voices

wailing against the entombment of the season

THE ARTISAN in the HILLS

She is steeped in the Smoky Mountains,

tucked in the bodice of Appalachia,

under the spidery arms of pines and firs

stoically linked together to form a jade lace



I saw her in a craft shop,

surrounded by shelves heaving with her creations,

the ceramics and pottery willed into pieces of art

as distinctive as the carpet of fallen leaves

matting the floor of the hills



This artisan sat at the rear of the shop,

her wistful fingers nodding and prodding

the pliant canvas of clay.

As she worked, her long silver hair

framed her fiftyish face

and highlighted her beatific smile

that absently crossed her face

like a breeze sweeping the desert sand.



A lilting Nancy Griffifth ballad drifted through the shop

as effortlessly as incense, and while she worked

she hummed along with its sanguine cadence

absorbed in her own sublime universe,

snippets of sunlight pinging off the enamel skin

of the pots and vases, like opaque knats.



And as I studied this sketch of creative serenity

I envied her life in the back of the shop

tucked in the green bodice of Appalachia

WEDDING IN THE SMOKIES (12-99)

Outside the chapel

of cedar and pine

the fir and spruce trees

sway in the early December wind

like lovers locked in the reverie

of the evening’s last slow dance



Inside the chapel

there is an unexpected sterility

a house of worship unblemished

by icons and symbols

as though one worships

only what is in one’s heart



On either side of the center aisle

sit four pews

lightly populated by family and friends

who, with the whir and click of cameras

record the ceremony

within the rough-hewn simplicity

framed by four walls of Appalchian pine

so rustically built that drops of sunlight

like prying, curious eyes

spiral through the cracks



On this pristine Saturday morning

a bond is being forged

by two people in love

embarking on their own frontier

with vows taken and rings exchanged



And as a waterfall drizzles down the hillside

and a light breeze lassoes

the stubborn fir branches

two lovers step outside

their loved sealed and nestled

in the bosom of the Smoky Mountains

TIS THE SEASON…AGAIN AND AGAIN

　

Every December

my wife scurries about like a hungry mouse

in the storage space beneath the hall stairs

One by one she retrieves the boxes

as if they were delicate artifacts

exhumed from ancient Egyptian tombs

Inside the boxes

rest the glittering ornaments and miniature houses

muffled with snow, her practiced hands

lovingly directing them to their preordained positions

in her annual tableau

She decorates the tree with all the care

of a mother dressing her newborn,

while carols careen through the yuletide ether

of our living room

It is the same dance every year,

as circumscribed as winter frost on kitchen windows,

and every year her giddiness is like a carousel

that spins me back to childhood holidays,

so that for a few hours I am a boy again,

my blood bubbling with the rapture of Christmas wonderment.

CRYSTAL FALLS

Morning mist over the lake

the frosty breath of the northwoods

rolling like a sigh over the water

chilled and quiescent, eagles overhead

gliding in curlique patterns

over the treetops, the birches



as tall and trim as totems, their ashen trunks

staunchly defying Canadian winds.

Only the drone of motorboats

squander the stillness, fishermen,

poles in hand, heave lines into the snapping air,



eyes fixed on the water, their minds

clear as the sky, wait patiently for the kiss

of northern pike upon their lures.

To the west, faintly, like a

growling stomach, storm clouds

gather and groan, delineating one more chapter

in the saga of Crystal Falls.

CHRISTMAS CARD FOR A FRIEND

　

Sent a Christmas card to an old friend

whom I hadn’t seen in years.

Ours was that magical relationship called

boyhood buddies, the ones who share private jokes

and laugh at the world like a pair of haughty outsiders;

the ones who confessed

their most secret experiences to one another

like patient to doctor, sinner to priest.

Together we scaled adolescence

and beat off adulthood, reciting our personal mysteries

in V-8 cars, beers gulped to unknown hours of unseen days

as we listened to rock “n” roll on the AM radio,

fending off a world ready to snap us up

like cheap garments at a flea market.

Eventually we did what boys turning to men do:

marriage, fatherhood, army, jobs.

And before we knew it, all the secrets had been told,

the mysteries solved and forgotten,

and virginal boys became stubbly faced men

with fewer private jokes to share.

He was forced to move out of state,

bumping along the ties of a railroad job.

Even before he left there were lean stretches of silence

when the phone didn’t ring, beers were unopened

and sinewy conversations went unspoken.

He never told me he was leaving.

A mutual friend broke the news,

and for several years only Christmas cards

kept us tethered to our eroding base of friendship.

Then one year my Christmas card was returned

with a rude yellow label on the envelope that read:






Moved. Forwarding order expired.

Nor did I receive a card from him.

After thirty years we were cut loose and floating apart,

like satellites escaping the pull of gravity.

I have lost his grip and his whereabouts

as he freefalls through space,

and the envelope with the yellow label

sits unopened on the table,

one last private joke sealed inside.

WINTER SOLSTICE

We lose the light

one minute per day

like ancient Chinese water torture

We draw into ourselves

in ritualistic hibernation

to await the rebirth of the Sun King

SAVIOUR AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

If

you saw Jesus

walking on the side of the rode

would you stop

to pick him up?--

what with his beard,

hair down to his shoulders,

soiled cloak,

dirty feet in sandals.

Neither would I.

Mary Magdeline,

on the other hand…

THE BOUNCER

We need a bouncer at the door,

muscular and loyal, because

they are sneaking in the back entrance,

burrowing under the foundation,

climbing over the fence,

all to taste the fruitiness of our wines,

to hide in the night so as to

bask in the sun, or dwell in the cellar,

waiting for us to turn our backs

so they can steal from our kitchen,

and with full bellies rob the remainder

of our possessions, jeer our ambitions,

spit on our children’s futures as they

inundate us like bacteria run amok.



We need a bouncer at the door

to protect who we are, which is

the sum of our sacrifices,

work, pain. laughter. We earned

our sovereignty, and they want to siphon it

like oil from a well, draining our energy,

depleting our drive, breaking the mirrors

to deprive us of our identity.



We need a bouncer at the door

who will demand they make eye contact

as they hold out their hands,

look skyward and promise to play

our game according to the rules

while adhering to the game’s dynamics,

vowing to speak in a vernacular

we can understand, because the policy

clearly states one menu fits all, read it

or make the choice to go hungry.



We need a bouncer at the door

while we still own the house.

THE HEROINE

While I poured the merlot

      she told me she dreamed of being

           the heroine in an Ayn Rand novel



I stopped pouring

      to brush her cheek

           her love warming my fingertips

　

　

A SONATA IN THE AFTERNOON

I watch you play the piano,

each note peals like the laughter of angels



Your eyes close as you succumb

to your musical muse



Trance-like, each key is mesmerized

by your fingertips as soft as spring petals



The sun baths your face, your hair

in sprays of saffron



intertwined with the sonorous sigh

consuming the room and nurturing my fantasies



to break free and imagine

you are playing my lust



the way you play the sonata,

with daunting improvision and without remorse

TO DIE ALONE

My father died alone



To be sure, there were others

present at the moment of his passing:

doctors, nurses, fellow patient.



But at that finite focal point

where life ends and death arrives,

they were as inconsequential

as floaters in the vitreous fluid of his eyes,

momentary distractions, blurs in the foreground,

transient nonentities, formless and chimerical.



Surely he must have sought a familiar face

to comfort him in those fading seconds,

a familiar voice to reassure him

during that extended exhalation, when the world

dims, and a recognizable touch of skin

both forgives and soothes,

a stroke of gratitude and thanks,

a gentle farewell into his final passage.



What does it say about the sum of one’s life

to die alone?

Does it hurt more than death itself?



There are many ways to die.

I do not want to die like my father…



Alone.

FOUR QUESTIONS

What shoes will pretty your feet?

What sunbeam will sparkle your eyes?

What song will smile your face?

What kiss will passion your day?

AN AFTERNOON WITH ERIC SATIE

To hear Trois Gymnopedies

transports me to a Parisian café

on a lustrous Sunday afternoon

sometime in May

Perhaps it is

the Foret Noir with wood beams

bisecting the ceiling, or along

rue Royale amongst widows and artists

Cylinders of sunlight

fall across the table

like ruffles on a schoolgirl’s petticoat

cups of espresso

belligerent and hot

fuel our desultory conversations

straining to be heard

along the Champ Elysee

above the chattering

of taxis and bicycles that provide

a throbbing counterpoint to the

sweet hum of a piano sonata

notes dripping

like crystal raindrops on marble

amidst curls of cigarette smoke

and the chimerical kiss of absinthe

Women with Lautrec faces

amble by drenched in Dior

framed by a sunset awash

with the tint of an ebullient Beaujolais

And when the music stops

as it invariably must



I sip the last of my espresso



and revel in Cocteau’s whimsy

　

THE TWIN DESTROYERS

Evil arrived sheathed in a metallic skin,

a winged hypodermic needle

injecting terror and death

into the American psyche.

The twin towers pointed skyward,

a monument to free minds

and unfettered intellect,

where dreams and reality meld and mutate.

Mohamed’s tribes sprang from their caves

like rabid bats, fueled by random emotions,

blinded by a thousand years of darkness,

hating what they do not understand.

Where the Towers challenged the heavens,

the tribes wallowed in the muck of superstition,

force their only path,

myths their only blessed verities.

Evil hates the achievers,

for the world of evil is constructed

on pain and suffering,

where mindless sacrifice is the highest value.

The best defense is to keep erecting these towers

to heights these tribes cannot scale,

and let the tortured alloys of our hearts

provide the impenetrable materials.

What intellect builds,

tribalism seeks to demolish,

so be wary of the twin destroyers of humanity:

Faith and force

AVATAR

I am twittered

face-booked

my-spaced

I am but an avatar

in my own life…

concocted, edited,

rearranged and disassembled,

downloaded and scanned

googled and texted

A disembodied series of

I’s and o’s

keening through cable

like magnetic fairy dust

blogged yet unknowing,

viewed without being touched

It’s meta-reality,

living like an amputee

whose life feels like a phantom limb,

all too aware

that at any moment

I can be deleted

IF ONLY

She unzipped her jacket

to reveal a baby bump

under her red knit sweater

Her stomach, typically tiny and flat,

caught my eye with its new girth,

the protuberance indicating there was someone

in her life--someone she gave herself to

Odd--

I wanted to touch her belly,

feel the nascent life within, share

the happiness mirrored on her face

Maybe pretend that new life

was my creation, and not the result

of a passionate liaison with some other man

I wanted the bump to be part of me

I wanted to be part of her

I wanted her hand to squeeze mine

at the moment of birth

Truth is, she has another life,

another love, and when she holds

the baby in her arms, she will gaze lovingly,

and see no part of me

FIXATED AND INNUNDATED

I was simultaneously

delighted and deluded

at the very sight of

Her

When she passed I inhaled deeply,

wanting to be inebriated

by her scent, an intoxicant

both erotic and toxic,

longing for her saltiness

to graze my tongue,

to have her sweat seep into my mitochondria--

the ultimate fusing of two beings

on a cellular level that can never be diluted

by time or apathy.

She passed with guileless grace

and made no effort to stop,

her thoughts preoccupied with a script

the ending of which

I would play no part.

UNFINISHED

“It’s a still life,” she explained,

arms fluttering over the canvas

like a nervous child’s eyelashes,

head at a curious tilt

evaluating the onions and apples

cloistered in a basket, seething

in hues of lemon and wheat,

the brackish tones of a reflective

Indiana twilight.

A month later the canvas

remains unfinished, propped up

on its easel like a forgotten heirloom,

the onions and apples yet undefined

and artlessly flat in execution, any

hope for their refinement lost.

Every color on her palette

has hardened, the oils dried and soaked

into permanency into the canvas,

brushes leaning tipsily

in a soup can of turpentine.

Her artistic vision, yet unpolished,

will remain so, the painter’s eyes

shuttered from the light, although

her vision was disquietingly prescient,

for the painting truly has become

a still life.

WORD POWER

Can I talk dirty to you?

Let each syllable dribble

into your ear like gravel?

Sibilant and thorny nouns and verbs,

prepositional phrases and declarative sentences,

each one rawer than the last,

my voice gauzy and louche,

like a gossamer gown

that reveals more than it hides

And as your breathing quickens,

my voice will deepen, images

spiraling off my tongue--

a blueprint for your fantasies,

every obscenity making you wetter,

every phrase exacting a moan

until the final verb

bursts forth like a supernova,

rendering both of us speechless

ORIGINAL HIPSTER

Jesus must have thought

himself a hipster, all hirsute,

with garments waving loose and unfettered

like sawgrass rippled by

April’s throaty sigh, venting

over the dry heaves of the desert,

improvising wordgames of flexible parables

for the edification of adoring crowds

bunched together like sun-ripened berries.

And afterwards, accompanied by his

nomadic posse of disciples, they would

swarm over the landscape like famished crabs

across the ocean floor, wailing at the

bellicose Judean night, delirious from prayer,

seething in evangelical sweat.

How full of himself he must have been,

knowing it was all about him, yet

crippled by the intractable knowledge

that it must end with a whimper, all the while

knowing real hipsters fade away

to the sound of bluesy nocturnes,

but for him the end would come

hearing only the forsaken dust swirls

coiling through Golgotha.

THE TRUTH OF AMERICA

The truth of America

resides in its diners

It’s strength and guts

pulsates within the people

who pour the coffee

cook the hash browns

clear the crumbs from the tables

Its spine is reinforced

by the truckers, those

baseball capped, plaid shirted

potbellied sages of the highway,

who are all cigarette smoke and runny eggs

Its inherent wisdom is supplied

by the rounded gray retirees

with their nonstop breakfast oratories

fueled by black java and massaged by

globs of Canadian bacon

Its moral fiber is woven

by the families squeezed

like sausages into the booths

as they gobble down lunch after church

Here is where the mélange of fried food,

friends and neighbors is served,

And when the last bit of food

has been eaten, and the last

drop of coffee drunk, they

will rise to their feet, slap down a tip

and walk outside to spread the truth

across America

CRUISEVILLE

At the small of her back

lies a tattoo of a cruise ship

Its hull a sullen blue

smokestacks of raging red

I can only imagine where it has traveled,

the souls it has touched

What adventures it must have engendered

under the moonlight and sun

What does it take

to voyage on this most private of vessels?

And if I received a personal invitation,

to where would we sail?

Perhaps we would follow the coastline

and seek harbor near a secluded island

Or follow the stars to the horizon

to drink in the spirit of a boundless sea

Or just maybe we would drop anchor

and let the whitecaps rock us to sleep

HOLDING YOU

If I could hold your love in my hand

I would raise my outstretched palm

toward the evening stars

as an offering to the fireflies

who would carry off your love

in all directions, so

no matter where I journeyed

you would be there waiting for me

CONTEMPLATING THE HIGGS BOSON

I contemplate the Higgs boson

and its lifespan of a wink in

the totality of the universe

I am, in some unexplainable manner,

linked to it, as it is linked to me,

like ancestors across the millennia,

a singular shard of genetic material

stretching to infinity

Yet as I read about its newly discovered identity,

I think: What does it matter to me?

What bearing does it have on my existence?

Will it help me win the lottery or live to be 100?

Or have a threesome with Scarlet Johanssen and Jennifer Aniston?

Are we all simultaneously suffused and trapped

by the dark energy of the Higgs Field?

Random particles pinging about

like unpaired electrons in an accelerator,

unseen, untouched, while being measured and catalogued

I fear I may be mere theorem and conjecture,

waiting, like the Higgs boson, for a random event

to verify my existence, no matter how ephemeral;

then I think:

Does a Higgs boson contemplate me?

STRING QUARTET NO. 4

I sit on my patio

listening to Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 4 in C minor

as the sun melds into the ionosphere,

dusk brushing the treetops

Unseen starlings chirp in counterpoint

to the morose movements,

violins evocatively weeping and celebrating

the composer’s vision

Lightning bugs spark in lockstep to the meter,

their jittery flight outlined in the gasping light.

Crickets, hunkered down in the shrubbery like insurgents,

provide the choral flourish that encapsulates

the flawless collaboration between Beethoven

and mid-summer dusk

DID YOU EVER GOOGLE YOURSELF?

Did you ever Google yourself?

Maybe in those private moments

in the solitary dimness of your room,

in the blank early morning hours

creviced between night and day,

or late in the evening, alone,

laptop aglow like an ancient oracle

privy to secrets and all forbidden knowledge

Your fingers swarming the keyboard

like warrior ants--searching, prodding,

excitedly investigating those most private parts

of your being, burrowing their way

through cyberspace like a kinetic tapeworm,

digesting, disgorging, your eyes filled with bits

and bytes, salty to your eyes,

hot to your fingertips,

until you reach a peak and scream

Yahoo!

WHAT WOULD JESUS TWEET?

Can’t believe it. Another leper is following me.

All I’ve got is some bread and a few fish. Hope these people aren’t hungry.

Just drove some moneychangers from the Temple. Why can’t they lease a storefront?

The host at a banquet wants me to turn water into wine. What a cheapskate. I suppose next he’ll want me to turn donkey dung into baclava.

These sandals are killing my feet. Think I’ll walk on water and cool them off.

Anybody up for a toga party?

Haven’t found one decent taco joint in all of Galilee.

Heard a story about this guy Methusala who supposedly lived to be 900 years old…right. And my mother is a virgin LOL.

I think the Romans are getting a bad rap. Pontius Pilate doesn’t seem like such a bad dude.

DID YOU EVER GOOGLE YOURSELF?

Did you ever Google yourself?

Maybe in those private moments

in the solitary dimness of your room,

in the blank early morning hours

creviced between night and day,

or late in the evening, alone,

laptop aglow like an ancient oracle

privy to secrets and all forbidden knowledge

Your fingers swarming the keyboard

like warrior ants--searching, prodding,

excitedly investigating those most private parts

of your being, burrowing their way

through cyberspace like a kinetic tapeworm,

digesting, disgorging, your eyes filled with bits

and bytes, salty to your eyes,

hot to your fingertips,

until you reach a peak and scream

Yahoo!