SPRING TEASE

March can be such a tease…

          If it were a woman
          her aqueous tongue would be
          flitting along my neck like an ant
          tracking a trail of sugar,
          while her hand slithered
          toward my male vulnerability

          And when I would attempt to reciprocate,
          she would curl just out of reach,
          disinterested in the very emotions
          she stirred in the recesses of my gut.

          April, on the other hand--
          ah…April,

          Now there is a month that will go
          all the way.

BULLSHIT & DREAMS

There is a fine filament
between bullshit and dreams
that separates triumph from despair,
reality from fable

For what is bullshit
but dreams led astray,
deluded by fraudulent aspirations,
corrupted by fallacious reasoning

Dreams symbolize the purest of hopes
as yet unstained by the virus
of bullshit that mocks and erodes
and revels in failure

Bullshit is too often
the temptress that lures the innocent
into unsavory scenarios gilded
with grandiose promises of glory and riches

So we must, like adroit tightrope walkers,
negotiate that microscopic filament,
for history is replete with forlorn tales
of those who lost their balance

between
bullshit and dreams

FACE ACROSS THE WAY

She sat at a nearby table
directly in my line of vision,
and as I glanced up
from my black hazelnut decaf
I caught sight of her exotic looks:
cheekbones imperiously prominent,
eyes the shape of almonds,
dark as ebony shards,
wide and curious,
sleek hair boyishly cropped and lightly waved,
black as licorice,
skin unlined and imbued
with the hue of caramel

She seemed an amalgam of flavors:
African-American melded with Caucasian
with a tincture of Hispanic,
the riddle made more curious
by her white male companion
upon whose words she appeared to dawdle

Furtively, I would peek over my friend’s shoulder
to admire the beauty at the other table,
wrapped in a beige sweater,
its V-neckline pointing to her erotic crevice,
which I imagined to be warm and inviting
and crying for exploration

My friend spoke and I nodded perfunctorily,
more concerned with making eye contact
with the caramel face,
 as if it would link us like modem to computer,
and instantaneously we could communicate
our urges and whims
beyond this gulf of tables

She smiled at her companion,
her teeth as white as priceless porcelain
and haloed by ample lips
touched lightly by a mere suggestion
of magenta lip gloss.
I wondered how they would feel
on  my neck and mouth,
pliant and dangerous,
consumptive and loving,
whispering odes to our passion

For a second as fleeting as a note
in a Charlie Parker solo,
our eyes met,
and in an act of emotional cowardice
I looked away, seeking protection
in the faces of the other patrons,
preferring to think she now discovered my existence
and toyed with her own fantasies

Eventually I recouped my courage
to gaze at the tables
beyond my friend’s right shoulder,
where my nameless angel
sat preoccupied with her companion,
my face an anonymous extra
in this café scene

ON OUR ANNIVERSARY

On our anniversary
       as I watch you dress, I notice
        how lightly the years have brushed your face

I look at you
        and still see the piquant beauty
        with the brooding eyes

You are eternally
        the effervescent high school girl
        all giggles and breathless kisses

stolen on star-crusted
        beaches on evenings we hoped
         would last forever

You turn from the mirror
        to see me looking back at you;
        your smile washes away five decades

and I’m eighteen again
        standing on the beach, finally realizing
        the evening will last forever



GOLDEN PEARLS

The years accumulate like clam shells
washed ashore upon the beige sands of a Caribbean beach

Like fanciful children, we open the first ones
with eagerness, others with trepidation, and still others
as if ensconced in a dream, moving with rote routine,
giving only vague thought to what lay inside

Yet each pearl is immersed in its own special beauty
that only we two can fully appreciate,
for we shaped each one, polished its sheen,
imbued it with a glint reflected from our eyes,
like the twinkle from a far off galactic fire
burning since the beginning of time

The years, like the pearls,
have varied in quality. Some were dull and blemished,
misshapen and undersized.
While so many others were perfectly formed,
smooth and untarnished, radiating a flawless sheen,
full and breathtaking

Yet all of them are strung together
piece by piece, until they form
an unbroken necklace,  unique and permanent,
like time itself, each one a chapter in our history,
the strand binding us together

You are my golden pearl, my treasure,
the content and meaning of my life,
my purpose and motivation

And over a half century ago when the first pearl was formed
flawless and symmetrical, I knew then
I would lock each one away in the sanctuary
of my heart and soul

                                                       NO MORE WINTER BLUES

Why do they call it
          “Winter Blues?”

From my window I see no blue

The sky is the sullen gray
of decrepit drywall

The lawn wears the brown cast
of oxidized flesh

Trees, their limbs twisted and exposed,
look like emaciated monsters,
their hides blackened and scarred

From this moment forward
let the season be called
          “Winter pale”

For like an embalmed corpse
          its color has been drained
          and it awaits burial

###






                                                   BELOW THE LINE

I wish
          I had been born and raised in the deep south

Far below the Mason Dixon Line
          instead of being planted in the upper Midwest
          like a primordial glacier
          all rock solid
          and lethargic,
          lake winds coiled around my spine
          January whiteouts blinding
          like cataracts

And as I push
          a snowblower through a drift,
          somebody somewhere
          is slick with sunblock,
          and dripping with Gulf waters,
          grateful they weren’t born
          north of the Mason Dixon Line

SOUTH HAVEN

SOUTH HAVEN

Autumn
          October
hunched along the eastern shore of Lake Michigan
like an abandoned child
South Haven waits for summer’s return

My wife and I
stroll the streets
now reticent and barren
like the beach itself
sulking behind the buildings
where seagulls screech their impudent calls
as they prepare their escape
from the looming
hostile Michigan winter

Along the beach
rows of gift shops
tee shirt shops
fast food cafes
sit shuttered and dark
rejects to the changing season
that leaves them barren and sequestered
like victims of a dreaded disease

The sound of our footsteps
ring past the seaside inns,
their blinds drawn against blank windows
the season’s dust settling like a plague
over unused furniture
closeted like unwanted dogs
behind locked doors

The clouds
like charcoal smudges
across a translucent canvas
wallow in their own reverie
hang
then drift eastward
over jade waters churned
by the rebuke of fall’s stiletto winds

South Haven
lives for the drone of motorboats
skiers in tow,
and the background chorus of tourists
in their flip flops and shorts,
hot hands clutching cold drinks
watching their kids scurry to the lake
like berserk lemmings

But as the inevitable cycle
plays itself out,
one last gull paces the beach
looks westward
and anticipates an arduous flight to the sun
as autumn bites
at its wings

MOHAMMED’S MESSENGER

Beneath the cloak,
his upper body is girdled
by a vest ladened with explosives

He meanders through the streets,
each step bringing him closer to martyrdom
 each heartbeat a plea for immortality

His eyes are blurry from the cataracts
of religious zeal that blinds him
from the bleating of children and stoic old women

who are, to him, mere dust particles
in a windstorm of heresy for which
he will mete out their punishment

His thoughts are locked on his reward
of a paradise filled with virgins
awaiting his arrival so that he may

devour the fruits of their chaste innocence.
His faith is as steady as the sun over Mecca
that lights his path to the bosom of Allah,

for he knows there is only one truth:
in the nanno second following his vaporization
he will either be greeted by 72 voluptuous virgins

or devolve into a baleful eternity of blackness.
Either way
he’s fucked