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