A NEW BEGINNING/AGAIN

I  want us to fall in love
with each other everyday

To look into each other's eyes
like it is the first time

To kiss like we are embarking
on a new adventure

 To tell each other secrets
we never revealed before

To feel that fluttering of the heart
whenever we touch

I want us to wake up as virgins
and end the day as lovers
embedded in the other's body and soul

###

INSIDERS/OUTCASTS


The cocoon
                  that spins from the bowl
                  of the poppy plant

wraps the user
                  in shards of atomized napalm
                  that shimmers with the silken veneer
                  of a junky tempo Miles Davis solo
                                                      concise as rain
                                                      sweet as a wren’s chirp
                  on a sandblasted Mexican afternoon
                  with tequila swells splashing against the walls of
                                                      conquistador cathedrals

Time moves
                  with the viscosity of heavy oil
                  in a Dakota winter
                                                      every second stretched beyond tensile strength
                                                      and clocks are reduced to irrelevant instruments
                                                      measuring the stanzas of time in music
                                                       no one plays

Lids droop
                  heads bob
                                                      spoons sizzle
                  slapped veins wilt like overdone pasta
                  as the pathways of digestion
                  clog with wet cement

And when the parched membranes
                  and turgid organs
cry out like hyenas
                  in the stolid African night
there is no pause for weeping and regrets

                  only the constrained squawks of angels
bleating for a fix
                  so that they may stare into
                                                      the eyes of God


                                                      one more time
                                                      without blinking

This is an exclusive club
                  an elite congregation of chemical shaman
                                                      nuzzled in their private knowledge
                                                      suckled by the cryptic language
                  and transformed by their secret rituals
                  that separate them from the chattel of the unaddicted
                                                      for it is the confidential mantras
                                                      passed from junkie to junkie
                                                      syringe to syringe
                                                      bag to bag
those shared scriptures of the corner score
                  and the phosphorescent nod
                  that sets them apart

It is the private joke that no one else gets
                  and the locomotive rush
                  from the asexual orgasm
                  no one else feels
                                                      and the whispering of saints
                                                      no one else hears
                  these are the artifacts that give it all purpose
                                                      and meaning

You live for the titanic rush that rattles your heart
                  while the straights are asleep
                  and wound tight in their beds
and you joust with the city
                                                      burrowing through the hard blackened streets
                                                      where the outcasts rule
and where only the chosen ones
                  can feel the ballooning knot in the stomach


                                                                                                           
Only when the needle tip spits in the vein
                  and you begin to feel like warm butterscotch
                                                      can you share
                                                      the transcendent cackle
                                                      with your own precious
                                                                                           jones

EXPECTING

She basks in the roundness of her tummy,
        pliant fingers absently tracing its spherical profile
                as if searching for imperfection.

Two cardinals feed on the lawn,
        oblivious to the figure in the window
                who exhales with the ease of evaporating dew.

The two birds flutter, fly off like excited tourists.
        She watches them disappear beyond the rooftops
                while counting the pangs inside her tummy.

SHALLOW WATERS

You are not deep
at all

You slosh
around the ankles

A negligible substance
of thin consequence

More of an annoyance
with studied inconvenience

When exposed to the heat
of a new day

You will
evaporate

LEAVES

Wherever we looked there were leaves…

leaves like ancient parchment that would
dissolve at your touch
wet leaves the color of earthworms
leaves, monochromatic and spikey
leaves of rust and dew
stacks of leaves, mounds of leaves
mildewed and insect-ravished leaves
leaves rotted by the rain
and shriveled like dyspeptic
old men baked by the sun
drifting leaves, whirlpooling leaves
leaves in gutters and clotted sewers
burning leaves, their gray plumes
wafting over rooftops
raked and bagged leaves
decaying leaves reduced to mulch
leaves pressed between the pages of books
to mark a memory or phrase
leaves adrift on river currents
to be carried off to destinations
known only to leaves

THE SANCTUARY

My eyes take in the condo
with a quick scan, and while not large,
it isn’t cramped, either. Just the right proportions,
much like her: no wasted space, and lines that flow
in perfect symmetry, like classic art.

The décor is Pottery Barn meets Ikea.
Nothing ornate, but hip and efficient.
Satiny throw pillows sprawl across the couch;
her beige sweater hangs  lazily over the arm of a chair;
a laptop computer corrals the corner of  the coffee table,
an empty water bottle standing guard beside it. Underneath
the dining room table a sleek black cat glares warily at me.

She tells me to make myself comfortable
while she disappears into the bathroom.
I stand in the living room
to take it all in: the laminate floors
with the Indian throw rug dominating
the center of the room; whimsical art
decorating the walls; flip-flops tucked in a corner
next to the front door; a 50 inch flat screen.

This is all her and I am overwhelmed
with a sense of intimacy that we have yet to share.
No nakedness. No sex. No scent of her body.
Yet surveying the interior makes me feel as if
I’ve entered into the most private regions of her being.
Herein lies the nakedness of her psyche closed
to the rest of the world except for the chosen few
allowed to gain admittance.

My fingers skim the fabric of the couch
and I can feel her flawless skin. I inhale the
faint vanilla fragrance of a potpourri candle
and am engulfed by her essence.

And when she reappears in the living room
 I feel a new connection to her, an intimacy
that didn’t exist moments ago.
And when she greets me with a smile,
it is like making love without ever touching

MY FATHER

My father
(age 87)
lays in the hospital bed
his cadaverous demeanor
beneath the white sheets
sketches a portent of the immediate future

His face resembles
so many sunken caricatures
laid to rest
on the silk pillows of forlorn caskets,
death causing the ultimate implosion
as the body caves in on itself
like a Florida sink hole

The eyes open intermittently,
but their milky countenance,
wet and glazed,
like a freshly waxed floor,
are oblivious
and appear fixed on recollections
far removed from the present,
while the figures at bedside
are nothing more
than cloudy shapes in a foggy dream

Stubble on the chalky cheeks
creates a vagrant’s visage,
out of character
for the stolid father/steelworker,
the blue collar ethnic paradigm
from another era’s ethic

What was once robust and profane,
bustling with rude energy
and working class bravado
has been sucked and siphoned
by the cruel joke that is old age,

and like air escaping a leaky tire,
his wilting body has its life force
dribble away a wheeze at a time.

The skin on his arms
hangs like soggy paper mache
ready to dissolve at the slightest touch,
the wan flesh mottled with brown specs.
It is tired flesh, rippled and sagging
and evaporating like cotton candy
in humid summer air,
muscles worn,
their bulk and elasticity
fading like the ancient pictures
 tucked inside the creases
of his battered wallet.