Bottom Rung

On the one hand, it’s obvious that a clash is imminent.

On the other it appears that the sky is too crowded as it is.

On another, it’s clear what lurks in the shadows, what

Needs to happen. There’s always a good reason to spring

Into action; indeed, at this juncture, it’s vital that we get

Underway. It’s colossally important that we meet it head on.

When it drains off, after the deluge, we won’t find any trace

In our memories, only the debris we vowed to collate

And move elsewhere if to make an honest buck isn’t pointless,

Isn’t timeless like a road that wouldn’t exist without its
Escape route. No one looks down while climbing, they look

Into the blue yonder, into the yonderous up up up

The ladder of civilization, diaspora of continents,

Looking up to see their “betters” scaling the heights—

Great art gets made by those who hold the ladder

For the rest to ascend; it sees by standing under,

Standing at the bottom of it all. Still, a clash, obviously,

On the one hand imminent, on the other not in stone.

Barrel Dad

The one called Dad was shaped like a barrel and had a barrel of ideas, the kind of ideas fit for a barrel. He used to fish them out whenever he got stuck. When the house was sad, we drained him dry. He’d head for the bar's tap around which his buddies floated in a circle like a congregation of swans at the foot of a fountain. They’d preen themselves with vows and pledges; break into song like insatiable gulls above the catch. They’d empty their glasses and search for the toilets like mice juiced up for a maze. Dad would say goodbye and meet the night, drain himself in the gutter and roll his barrel home with the rumbling thunder of its emptiness enough to wake the neighbors. Our kitchen was a quagmire. He came through it like a polluted seabird, wings akimbo, bogged down by The Magic Shamrock’s 2 for 1 happy-hour specials. We went to school for a whole week before his noise and face would join up for a Sunday of armchair snoring. There’s not much to expect from a barrel, except that it hold without springing a leak.

Decent People In Good Faith

Decent people in good faith

Sometimes engage in violence,

If it’s genuine, pure, if it helps

To fix a screwed up world.

Decent people in good faith

Get lied to, and then lie to us

So we don’t have to feel guilty,

Disappointed, but decent and good

No matter what. It’s a religion.

In school I heard the shot

Heard round the world, then fought

To make my mission a reflection

Of us, decent and good. Once

Upon a time these lands lacked

Liberation from idleness, only fauna

And flora, and Indians missing

Their chances, unaware of the gold

Beneath their camps, inside their pelt

And meat hunts.  Decent people

In good faith said, “There’s no

Stopping progress!” Epic bloodshed

Ensued, as if an ancient poem

Were taking place. In the aftermath,

Decent people in good faith

Tallied the dead, and decided

The price paid was worth it, and now

Going forward, let us all try hard

To relieve the suffering of the victims.

Decent people in good faith feel

The need to help the frail, those

Whose grasp of reality is in question,

Who might become decent too,

If they would only listen to us

And agree that our version is decent

And human, and whatever we do

We always do it in good faith.

Lyric for John Ashbery

There they sat, wine and smoking in lamplight,

Talking of themselves and things other people own

While I hung from the eaves, my ears turned

To their voices as if I knew the reason

One carnation fails and the other raises its petals

Like hands in a church with no ceiling—

They built the scenery, moving room

To room without losing the thread; fearless

Talk, and not a single break until minutes ago

When I heard the master had died, and the other

Who didn’t say much but listened with his eyes

Bit his lip and wrung his hands, uncontrollably

Sobbing in the armchair as if he had fallen
In a well, only the stars to admire from now on.

Like a whisper, I climbed down and hurried home.

Someone (let it be me!) has to write the next poem.

Short Order

A baker’s dozen dozen

Before ten o’clock,

Over easy, over hard,

Scrambled, poached,

Sunnyside, omelets,

Ten in the dock,

Four in pans—life

Has no time to intrude

On high-volume

Breakfast at Joe’s;

Three meals at once,

Paint the pan with butter,

Crack ‘em, flip ‘em,

Slide ‘em on the plate

With homefries dusted

By paprika and toast

Popping up, going down,
Four at a time.

On the mat

Two land yoke up,

Slide between the slats,

The boss leans over: pay

Attention, he says,

Try to be the best cook

Breakfast ever saw.

Stalin and Mandelstam

Absolutely, we love your poems. You grew
Out of our soil. We adore your work. And you

Love us in every line, every syllable of every word.

Not a country in the world with one like you.

We understand the engineering of the human

Soul, the science of stresses, technology of image

And color, the whole symphonic machinery

Of your verse, how dangerous they could be 

In the ears of certain enemies of the revolution

Who never showed any true feeling for the people

As you have, who might be tempted to use you

Against the nation, your nation that knows

What's best and good, and I think even you’d agree,

The poems, so beautiful, make you unnecessary.

Fascists and Lorca

We don’t read poetry, and only listen

When there’s music, a stormy drumbeat

That slides under the skin and makes us

Want to achieve the historical, be great

Before we end up on that regrettable

Pile of forgotten losses. We don’t like sissies,

Men who brood too much, or think a lot.

Inspiration is a God no consequence

Can corral. Slaps you in the face like a coach

When otherwise you’re not up to the task,

And brings people together with a single aim

And a steady hand, ready to act as one

When you're sited against the wall, smoking

Before the sun’s had a chance to warm us.

Centuries Go by in a Flash

Centuries go by in a flash, then they crash

Into clichés.  I recall reading about today’s strife

In a book from caveman times.  Can it last,

Is the first thing you think, can it thrive?

Seven days a week the drunkard ups his drink,

While machines wear themselves out, sink

Into abuse.  Looking forward is looking back,

Since for trouble, we have an old, natural knack.

When I’m asked about what will happen tomorrow

I tell the asker yesterday’s tomorrow’s sorrow,

Unless it isn’t. But you have to put the drink down

And commit to a different path, you have to drown

Your love in an instant, and keep your head high

Above water until you reach a side that’s dry.

Trumperlick 2

There once was a peacock named Donald

Who traced his roots to bonny Scotland—

He wanted nothing else

But to grab beaver pelts,

Before his huge feathered head goes bald.

Trumperlick

A tycoon buffoon by the name of Trump,

Talking shit in a goldplated dump;

     The people called him forth—

     Celebrity trumps worth!—
For whom the world is a thing to hump.

Intelligent Design

Such monumental mulling went into it

That any reversal of fortune implies a bid

Against a house of curtaincalls, accordingly

Carded for the timeless therapy of a spree;

Such purposeful pain and purity went into it

That you’d think none of us trim and fit

To gainsay the dead for the utility of bread

Among hordes envious of those who fled

Shadowside. Credibility marooned, bereft

Of tantalizing foolery to foul a dreamer’s yield;

It builds seascapes to sail, a pagan’s point

To parse the sky’s failure to repair. I’m left

All alone, ozoned bones brittle, mis-healed,

Paying the sharksuited to sue the joint.

Envy Wallowing

Imagine for a second that you’re Mookie Betts.

He’s about your size. Runs more, lifts more,

But sideways you’re about equal. Imagine
That you rolled a seven, hit the number,

Put your money on the longshot horse, drew

Inside for a straight-flush; imagine you blasted

The walk-off hit that wakes up the stadium’s

Pagan Thank You. You have a god’s body

And enough treasure to start your own country.

Imagine it’s guaranteed, no fine print, all yours.

Imagine flying an airplane after hitting a homerun.

Imagine sliding on the turf to snag a slicing hit.

Imagine stealing second then third then home.

You are Mookie Betts, oyster and pearl,

The best thing that happened to your team,

The best thing that happened to your friends,

The best that ever happened to your family; go ‘head,

Ask them. Imagine you’re Mookie Betts eating

Prime rib in a classy place with an umlaut name and a chef;

Someone in the lavatory wants an autograph

After you pee and wash your million dollar hands,
Mookie Betts, the best thing since regular guys
Were invented. Imagine being resident on Mt. Olympus
With the other beauties, a chest of gold and diamonds,
Platinum, jewels glittering in piles, and someone
Somewhere building a temple, an altar for bowing
In cap and jersey, Mookie Betts, number 50,
Boston Red Sox home colors. Imagine being Mookie
Betts with the kind of money only a moron
Or a saint could squander, and having a name like Mookie,
And all you ever have to do is show up to be loved,
Just get out of the car with your entourage
Of friends, walk into the building, the stadium

Toward the front where the emcee is standing, waiting

With his microphone to introduce the greatest person

In the world, the one and only you. Imagine
Being Mookie Betts for an eternal second.

Villanelle

My grandmother was tortured, so she tortured us,

Called my mom fat, dumb, told her to "see a shrink,"

Though we all got pretty used to that. She was boss,

And no matter what age, or number of kids you toss

On the family pyres, you always stood on the brink.

My grandmother was tortured, so she tortured us

Wherever and whenever, and with a minimum of fuss,

She'd identify the target like a cat springs on a moving thing!

Though we all got pretty used to that, she was boss

In love with you for awhile, only to snap and cuss

Into your face till the teas flowed, and you fled the outing.

My grandmother was tortured, so she tortured us.

I guess is was to make us stronger, make us more robust

Of spirit, able to take on the world and never shrink!

Though we all got pretty used to that, she was boss,

And since love in a family has to bear its own cross,

We licked our wounds and hugged her with a wink.
My grandmother was tortured, so she tortured us.
Though we all got pretty used to that. She was boss.

Orgy Over

all the battlefields

like monumental beds

where millions sleep it off

in the arms of lovers

after going at it for days

like there's no tomorrow--

walking through this one

on tiptoe not to wake them

Gerontic Fable

Two people meet in the middle of a bridge. They start talking. One's dressed in blue, the other in red. They finish their conversation amicably, and walk off in opposite directions, each scratching her head in confusion. "So, how was it," is the question they face upon reaching their compatriots. "Fine," they say. "But those people have a hard time with reality." Suddenly a speedboat shoots beneath the bridge. Its co-pilot holding a sign that reads: Jump, jump, we'll save you!

In This Garden, May 28, 2017

In this garden there are no rankling voices

With answers and choices that are neither.

Sunday with a woodpecker and a fat jay, all

Singing for our stake, in the shade of hazelnut

Bushes, now trees you can’t control no matter

How much you need deep down to grab hold

And steer them, hydra-headed they come back

Like offspring of war. Today I let it grow as will,

With squirrels bellyflopping from branches

To help undo the best intentions gone sour,

This moment when the lizard madly dashes

Between nettles both sides of the path,

Their leaves wide open for a handful of sun.
I already hate what I'm about to jot down.

America, the Game

In the game some play

By the rules, others slay

According to the aim

No matter what shame

Gets visited on the game,

The aim is always to win

And climb out of that sin

Losers feel all the same.

Unless your God awaits

With a book of notations

And timeless quotations

For your choice of fates,

Playing the game of lies

And disdain for the whys

Lands you the only prize:

Fear, in power’s disguise.

Rules apply to saps

And those with a vision

Of eternal damnation,

Feathers in their caps

Burning as beacons

For the whole of creation

Like blushing deacons

Witness dog exultation

On the corner where Go

Has an electric fence

To fry the poor and low,

Whose capital offense

Is being. Hence a God

Or a conqueror’s bod

Since the game’s rules

Are meant for the fools

While life means zero

To the capitalist weirdo

Whose one God is fame

And a moneyed last name.

Tourist Posture

Russia ascends.

Russia about to be

a bottomless pit

of misery.  African

lives on the up.

Agriculture, industrial

output motherly.

The Amazon thrives

with life.  It slithers

dead zones

of epicensure.

China falls to modernity,

treats the world

like fuel, face-

savings in the bank.

Things to worry about

are things to love

and love is something

to worry about.

Billions build

towers of elsewheres,

hungry droves

in groves of children,

orchards bathed

in American

chemical ingenuity—

ambitiously

proper calibration

of the sights  

to safeguard peace

on earth, good will

to those whom we ask

their souls.  See,

the slouching bear

on TV, decidedly

polar, on a drift

of ice once

a continent of snow

the whole year.

God’s people, thank

God, on the case.

Not for beasts, perhaps

but others

who turn out not to be

too greedy, too needy

for their stay.

Hope is elementary,

and wants to keep it that way. 

Events Like Me

And then the president

Or someone blew up the buildings.

Then the mongrels took over. 

They made it plain as day,

Heartless tongues awag. 

They cut along the dotted line,

Two snakes emerged, each

A hissing lullaby for the baby

Bundles out on a limb. 

Then the whole nation wept. 

The whole weeping nation then wept

For revenge.  Patriot nobodies

Built bonfires at the center of the park.

One neighbor has two of everything. 

One likes the challenge of bows

And arrows.  Spark ribbons

Twirl in the black sky.

Fire burns up all the best ideas. 

The fire’s idea rises on its own heat

Like a balloon or a diver

Has to hold it in, yellow flames

Glide by on the fender of a 50

Something outlined in silvery light. 

Smiles recreate the moment,

Mother folding laundry, her back a curve

Of aches and pains like a sea-bitten

Tree.  I taste salt on my lips, as it

Was and should be, of earth

When it comes to me, in my heart that bleeds.

Around the planet the same probe

Takes place, the same pace

Of inquiry, the same

Interrogation. Money talks

Up what money makes

Like we speak lovingly of babies,

Milestones of growing old,

Of apples and pears,

Money is life enough for money

To bear, playing songs

It loves itself to hear.  Can I last

Out those who now rise up

Like their grandfathers

Against enemies of the word,

Enemies of rolling Rs, coughing
Gs, the straight and narrow Ss?
Friends of a god whose martyrdom
Masquerades as a misery party

Of unrequited love?

That’s when I think it’s good

To be a mortal, when I appreciate

Such a limited event as me.

And yet I have my days 

When even that's too much

Nothingness to be.

Portrait of a Dog Heading West on a Road by a Meadow beneath a Blue Sky

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