Poetry

another departure
sand storm and winds
change on every horizon
slow forward let go
let us go
lets go toward
somewhere else
trudge or gallop
fasten memory to
message
onward into story

“The innumerable ancestors who merge within me.”
– Jorge Luis Borges

a helix of familiarity resonates
about our set jaws, dark hooded lids
of inner-lit eyes, wild broad smiles

we grant an ironic twist
an awkward gait
the smell of overtired children

random chemistry exchange 
and varied ocean voyage
perforate the here and now

complex into present
allow nuance of empathic logic
awestruck admiration

in the long-haul chain of relativity
tears well-up and lonely nights
hover in suburban structures

emptied of rhythmic stories 
or crocheted doilies
these emoticonic moments seem situational

grey roots and receding hairlines
eye colors and surges of venomous rage
translate from another layout

differing and deferring 
as the landscape warrants
pooling and seeping into our children

ideas brew, percolate, steep but when I sit down 
to write the long imagined play
the characters move slowly from their platform of ruined columns 
refuse to speak as they shift compliantly into Scene 1

I do not hear them and yet I expect an ease I never find
as if words would arrive the way ideas do
the way novels seem whole

the labor is supposed to happen without me
the final product should spill forth perfect
complete

beware the dangers

of a symbolic mind

so connected to detritus so fond

of the fading stain on a poster-tube

its blue par-avion sticker

still intact

between pain
and pleasure
new depth

I contemplate future
like some dinghy
in a wild sea

switching lanes in light rain
the difference between then
and now

all I know
travels toward

and wherever she is at departure
she begins with 
the same luggage

tightly packed sins
folded neatly beside
longings wrapped around

desire and interests
maybe historical
memorabilia  

so as she shifts from one
state of self  into the next
remember the future

she wants to roll into
and model that being now

masked, upright
shoulder strap across
classical music pipes
into free headset

soy latte post-salad bowl
in the airport, a far cry
from the recollected little metal spoons
and trays of rubbery chicken
on long ago cross Atlantic flights
cavorting in the aisles with brothers for hours

away we go after the prolonged sequestration
toward an unfettered future

    (Borges)

inflated ego attack
as in grandiose stance

astride the future
tense with command

hands crumpled in on themselves
a chronic grip

teeth grind day and night
the way rage surges

in cases of escape
opposition to exile

in cases of obedience
servitude or severance

the ideal of memory loss
has vague merit here

one more way to avoid
the terror of perspective

the doorway to elsewhere
stays ajar and Caren appears
having crossed my mind
two years earlier

eventually it links to water
embryonic, the 80%
we ignore so easily as if
this mass of flesh is not illusion

we deny oceanic ripple
aqueous cell structure
salted or clear
our buoyancy

keeping us supple the river
we think won’t dry

into the hand i glow
cheshire and toothy

evocative blue symbols
transmit across airspace

cupped in concentration
enter the mind at warp speed

trigger the trip switch
of understood and recalled

suction of kiss
intimate grip

beyond corporeal presence
mystic colors arise then dissolve

at the same time there as here
a languid swoon

for lack of real contact
but worthwhile in the meanwhile

to check and recheck
these humming communiques

pick a card, any card memorize
that card, return it to the deck 
every time her baby brother did a sleight of hand  
she rolled her eyes and groaned

he smiled from the seat of his unicycle
shuffled the deck like an accordion
slid coins out from behind her ear and twinkled slyly
when she begged to know the secret

but when he slipped 
over the international date line
into a kayak on the Tasman Bay
she felt the disappearance like a knife

in the misty morning
we pried ourselves loose
unmasked
rinsed our dream faces
transformed

we rolled out the constricted part
in an effort toward balance
one leg at a time
finally engaged core remembered itself
and held us still

meanwhile, my mother waned
language loosened and access blurred
into a vague decision
choosing between soup and stir-fry or
an endless search for PIN codes and insurance
cautious walks across fields of goose poop
to marvel at the pond

then, my dead brother emerged as I sipped my bitter coffee
his soft gaze in the midst of forever
and a longing rose
the fervent wish that conscious and safe were possible
that Quan Yin could actually usher the final sufferer
through a gateway

that awaken would mean something brighter than morning
stronger than ozone
a permanent status update
of alive
of free
of home

Susy can still blink
one for yes
two for no

her older brother shakes the wheelchair
to wake her for news and photos of
my 8 year old son and new love
her head lolls
he wipes the corners of her mouth

his wife eats her salad
chats about diaper changes
and disappointment
the latest decline, short-term memory loss
while my voice brings the remnants of a smile to her lips

I kiss her dry forehead, rub her feet contracted en pointe, a dancer’s pose
her hands fall gracefully across the magazine in her lap, “fancy weekend getaways”
we joke, her caregivers and I, as she slips in and out of sleep

I tell her I will meet her here again
when they return in six months
to fill her pump
her brother says
she looks as if she wants to cry
but I suspect a denser wish

into the mirror
she alters perspective in order
to salvage some coherence

amidst the whirl
of myriad personas
anger is her 3rd rail

a dangerous electricity
inhabits her low back

afternoon reflects her outline
a suspect genealogy
someone of partial remembrance

a bony contour
a hand-me-down clock
the leotard her body danced

she exchanges herself
with time emerges partial
to her own integration

slow lilt of saxophone
eases across the room
stirs into us as we write
our way toward order

each line winds
with the reedy song
and bends our minds
with new mood

focused on lilt
we sip from various mugs
the honey sweetened tea
of choice

as the tempo up-ticks
stories evolve and we dance
down the page
our pens and pencils

sway, jot, swirl
and glide

everyone has a belt
cinched to the nearest
awkward moment
their neckties are creative
in that Frank Lloyd Wright
Jerry Garcia design modality

forks on the left
linen napkins neatly pleated
and the difference between white
or red wine glass
includes extra cabinets

Oh, martini ice
Oh, swizzle stick
Oh, olive tongs

dark shoes are in store
because they lay the foundation
for going through the paces

No one grins or guffaws in public
No one admits to the spittle on the pillow
No one discusses incontinence

carefully composed memories
preserved between the leaves
of ancient tissue paper
are stored in coordinated bins

this is a straight and narrow path
with minor pitfalls
and unmentioned hair dye
divorce, botox, arthritic hips

focus reigns
and weather dictates outer gear
vacation options; downhill, cross-country
and in the wake

if the path to work emanates scents of
lavender and jasmine when people rustle past

and the French doors stay open
and another collage awaits glue

quiet can spread over 
the day like silk

and whatever familiar sorrow arises
with its choke of tears

while nearby children’s voices
trill through the air

in this inner silence
truth can emerge

prebiotics enhance the flora
of my microbiome

if I google myself
disappointment zings upwards

there is no metaphor for now
but the quest continues to haunt

fall grey casts its pall over morning
despite bitter coffee antidote

every ounce lost
increases endorphins

its an MMA world
in a virtual medium

neither Warrior Pose nor Downward Dog
adjust this curvature

all over the map
silence pervades

on a lonely trend
other ceases to exist

pleasantry resonates narcissism
any number of bells toll

two hours of dominant paradigm shopping
results in moving meditation

only gratitude can balance this
collection of detritus

fish shaped purses, 1960’s lunch boxes, cookie tins
all stacked, in wait

what appears empty fills with story
once upon a lunchtime

inside the pockets
worthless charms

stuffed animal comfort logic
a language of inertia

earlier still, the confines of womb structure
permeates memory

back into current
the entitlement ring reminder emanates

self growth comes at the cost of
lost causes

even with everyone intact
the circle can shrink

but the spiral holds hope
that potential return

alone, with each other

we depart from past imprisonment

forge a new path through this desert

parched, rasping, terrified, stricken

isolated or antagonized

ever in search of hope

the antidote to viral danger

grief over grief every step

of the way toward accord

a truce as awkward as peace

as complex as reconciliation as

we let go

open to freedom

you are the luck of my life
whether deep laughter, mouths wide
familiar jaws and teeth exhibited
or the slow choke of tears, eyes welled

I lean toward your confidence
welcome the sturdy warmth

your voices settle my stomach
clear the air
your handwriting relaxes me
I focus inward

without such connections
I would stagger
falter with each sentence
nothing would make sense

and the closest I would get
to inside of myself
would be a tour through
my walk-in closet

there is safety in the company we keep
it keeps me alive, thank you

at the beginning there was the longer line
which traveled through the arms

where they lightly touched shoulder to elbow
on the arm rest and in the dark

conversation went like a voyage
like sibling revelry, familiar and new at once

over coffee, squid salad, and something
pureed with cream, vellutata

couplets arose as if hidden in wait
for a muse or even amusement

for that elan akin to ripples on water
the overtone series extended into a void

her hand on the center of his back
just for a moment before descending

toward the first kiss gently shared
as easily as talk of habitual anxiety or the word loquacious

death pictures disrupt
lively wax & wane
of what remains between voids

we, the interstices
this bridge from girls
to women

through loves and losses
across spaces
what death removes

or birth intrudes
nothing erases
trust ensues

hope engendered
by friend

languages are ending
melted into each other
for useful reasons; shared
bread, the direction of wind
how close to build the lean-to

and already there’s no word
for the nuance of green
out the back window, no
absolute way to show a spider-
web hung between the spindly
twigs of the hawthorn, tiny pearls
of water on each strand juxtaposed
with the red berries of late fall

and hardly any way to convey
how much I love you with words

sometimes I wake-up
at odd hours, disarmed
by the alarm of a spy toy
or the tick of battery
operated clocks
and question the light
in my mind

as long as it took
to learn how to breathe
from the first
desperate squawk
to the deliberate
inhale of Tai Chi
there was always
that same light

and now, with my bra
coming out of my sleeve
slight-of-hand modesty
in an ocean of new passion
breath seems easy
I exhale
relish the fall

I feel like I owe you an apology
maybe it’s really supposed to be
a phone call conversation
or a poem but

this insistent rain seems to be crowding
us out of the parks
insinuating its dismal gray patter across
my low back

everyday tasks and vision quests have kept
the neurotransmitter swirls busy on the inside
parallel play with weather
a fine way to ride the orb

I catch your smile now
and wonder where the cat has hidden
must be time for warmer socks here
my cold feet wriggle as I sign-off

At my desk in my NEW office I can see the sky shifting into dusk
the clouds backlit in a peach glow hover over your part of town
one building or another peers across the tree line toward me

I imagine your chin lifted, eyes cast downward through prismatic lenses
a dense legal document displayed on your glowing screen

Here the quiet of evening descends and I send you a quick message
flicker through the thick language of your argument for a brief interlude
to let you know I love you across this varied palette we call sky

untested cough
and ague subside
while somewhere else
an aged woman coughs
into thin air

she is still my mother
even as isolation
deprives our shared breath
even as my voice weakens
against the strain of distance

it is the echo
of myself I want
to talk to
now out
of the ashes
to tell me
how this story-frond
unfurls

replicated boys
gather over and over
brotherly lovely

grief stilled
in peripheral urns
boxed and bound

banter ricochets
across rooms
or via satellite

everyone ends up
laughing at the same
songs the winning score

when my tall son smiled
near the end of his season
after another 3 points

years of bleachers
hidden sorrows
grave visits mellowed

tell her she knew
how to grow into
this future self

let her in on a secret
the story is easy
follow the path

the poem starts after the walk, while we’re rinsing
the red brown mud from E’s black suede tennis shoes
under the spigot, at the top of the East Ridge trail
and the water was so damned cold, and E, barefoot
and cranky, was pouting in the backseat of the Honda

did we notice the Eucalyptus smells, squish
of mud underfoot, and the Redwood trees?
did we listen to the rivulets streaming down the path
as we stepped across in avoidant measure? and as my son,
bright blue signal in petulant distress lagged behind us
or careened ahead, eight year old self intent on exclusion
did we note the crisp clarity, the shimmer of winter sun?

later, as the tantrum mounted and his mighty boyhood
dead father’s sword in one hand, small pointed knife
acquired on a Quito foray, gripped in his still pryable palm,
did we taste that bitter coffee on our breath? and as I led him
into the steaming shower, washed him with watermelon shampoo
and reassured him that he was safe, that I was not leaving, even
in love outside his known realm, did we feel the heat rising?

when sunset hit the sky out my bedroom window and you kissed
years of tear tracks off of my glowing cheeks, when you invited E
upstairs to see the pink and orange range, that redwood forest walk
with all its delicious mud and power took hold, stationed itself
in my heart and I leaned into you

she transcends
in order to awaken
in order to accept
take in, subscribe to
the bitter tea, the remedy
for her conjoined history
at once logic and fantasy
the tall clock ticks and a gentle
grandmotherly ghost
purses her lips

it’s not time she wants to alter
not the way she can float
up and down the aisles
of the open market, fresh kale
and plump radishes in her blue bag
free samples of sweet dried peach
lingering on her tongue
she likes, appreciates, admires, enjoys
thrills at, relishes the wafted hours

but the rational realm
must also endure
what to cook each night
and when to fold the laundry
these tasks conflict with imagery
there is nothing symbolic about
the crease in his pant leg, the folded
towels left strewn on a sofa
the crimson roses bleeding out
of their vase

she musters her memory, recalls
the rise and fall of her once supple
frame, the imaginary ecstasy
of what appeared true and trims
the ends of the tulips, replaces
the roses with wide open purple
orange, purple, orange
allows their cellulose stems
into her day

caught between
very old love
and what most recently left
guilty in the face of death

transparent certainty
that an adolescent romance
colored everything
until 27 years later

on a quest
for fundamental order
amidst residual grief
that over tired sentiment

the first glance
of self completion

the message came after
my child was safe in bed

last seen dashing down the street
without his backpack

no wallet, no jacket, no cell phone
only 13, with bad grades and angst

some childless neighbors referred to him
as “bubble boy” and said he seemed a loner

best known among the younger crowd
as the one with fireworks on 4th of July

into the night men searched with flashlights
under the electric towers, in the ravine

women phoned each other, sighed, spread
the word, listened toward the emptiness

police presence was on
the case, missing child alert

late in the rain his French teacher spied him
on an overpass, wet and tired from a night in a shack

in a thank you message from his dad, relief careened
off his voice into the chicken soup bubbling in my kitchen

usurped of sensate self
she slept away
from adulthood

unaware of time
she avoided the onus
of labor

childishly wild
she masked her surprise
at menses blood

raped by neglect
she hid under beds
swallowed their secrets

frightened by talons
she shied from confession
veered off the stage

sensitive to touch
she cramped
onto the speculum

clouded by loss
she buried her essence
in slanted cursive

emptied of faith
she accompanied sterility
rode shot-gun across borders

shattered by loss
she appeared explicit
cracked her chewed gum

implanted with hope
she rejoiced at potential
bought into permanence

confounded by pain
she thwarted commitment
clung to stagnation

awestruck by delicacy
she cradled the future
fed into the code

humored by denial
she wrangled expectations
loosened her tresses

stricken by departure
she tallied her prospects
strengthened her core

sullied by longing
she abandoned ambivalence
dove into the ocean

warmed by security
she opened her chambers
catalogued symbols

awakened on purpose
she let go of youth
leaned into language

one celled
when concept
occurrence
small arched door
was like idea
sudden

edge bent in
first accommodation
then grape like cluster
suctioned to thick wall
symbiotic necessity
urgency

a light went on
big bang

smooth oval aloft
laden with likely
question of order
seamless first born

between fingers
held up between
hope and vanish
or relinquish

which came
which departed mother
born of dearly
yolked to

split open by blow-hole
puddled on foreground
on empty shell of

a gesture rolled
into a schematic
weather

interminable
then melt down
inundated

albumen of earth
genuine
loss pools

In the last poem
words disintegrate.
Soft dust of brown
moth wing. Fragment.

Ruined remnants of a doric
column. Expectant, with
the crowded mind of
the often observed.

It stalls at the exit, lingers, asks
one last how before it wafts into
holographic robes of yet to be. Then,
as the door eases on brass hinges, laughs

backwards, recites itself
and breaks.

mist pervades as I travel
in a right brain time warp

big picture forests and piles
of dead grass manifest

a soon to be demolished shed
smells vaguely of natural gas

old tools rust: vice grips, drill bits
and exacto-knives gather dust

it feels like I am dating my own life
colorless dead selves emerge

I carry them toward the brink of cognition
lay them on an imaginary stage

floats out but not
as the little man other
caretakers saw standing
in the mirror above the metal
sink late at night

the last breath, or rasp
bile heaved dark and acrid
the end

later, good death
Muktananda’s impression
blue wool cap in hand
image of dance, out
breath stilled

Such a solid, grounded
number. A real chunk
of time. Not some wafty
little fragment floating
past. Ten. And still

pain resurfaces
as absence echoes. How
we live between two
worlds. How the wind
throws it’s whisper
across the low chimes
on my deck.

Blessed spirit, beloved by those he touched

because so much
ensues untimely
find a consummate plot

suspect truth

remember evils loosed
from Pandora’s box
dull ache where Hope perched

submit to scrutiny

choose Indian black
granite rectangle slab
abide cemetery rules

italicized Roman font
Jewish star
epitaph to etch in

forever

the dead just keep being dead
and Sharon, blue like Rama
a flame in a tango dress
smiles in and out
of our minds

her seductive manner
the pony she rode
in Turkey as a child
jewels and boys stolen
from her only daughter
a drink on the dock
in Tennessee

those sapphire eyes
glint across these broken
hearts these multi-exposed
hearts bleeding so long

for PT

my friend has turned
canary yellow
a fragile whisper

I hang rose quartz around
her neck, pop malted milk balls
into our mouths

across the years this cactus grower
psychic suggested a bone knife
to YES paste collected imagery

a rubber roller to Modge Podge over
collage on a plexiglass
plate and gifted me the lilt of her laugh

metallic Mardi Gras beads
dangle in her stamped photos as we sipped
homemade pear and anise liqueurs

here, behind the plaid curtain
I tape an abstract post-card
to the metal arm of her bed

slip a pillow under her gaunt knees
find a cup for the jasmine I’ve stolen
to brighten this hospice corner

light vapors float out
a dying nova wanes

each poem sinks toward
blurred vision asks
what more can we do

he stays his course
in the large leather chair
swallows, listens

once in a while a voice
rises from the ashes
entreats us

break open narrative
let language fly

colloquialisms don’t go over well
talk to you later and the forlorn all
sit on a stoop waiting for their non-
emergent mothers in station wagons
devouring time like an overripe plum
forced to stagnate until at least eleven
not even clear on adulthood and the ensuing
responsibility of a bike ride around Oregon

maybe a phone call since we’re heading for an
even denser clod this year but nothing so convenient
as proximity can ease the mad clatter of obsession
that mars the night sky with it’s endless refrain look
look look and into the dark we stare willingly as if
some brightness would catch hold to startle us out of
this chosen fugue state and a tight clique of stars
shelters a big surprise none of us believe in anymore

hesitancy about honesty inhibits necessary motion
a flicker of rose candle in the childhood corner proposes
faith that baneful endings can have a toxic effect which
would wreck the vision of a real balcony scene replete with
ripe kiwi and silk garments something akin to forever but
without the emphasis on death or even passion as these are
remnants of someone else’s nightmare and not the true colors
deemed relevant if pursuit and soft skin can tolerate so long

before Super Bowl
or awaited rain
while desire lingered in a liminal
zone of tired out
arms of the bedside lights
folded against their crimson wall
cat curled into the curve
of knee and comforter
his snores broke the wavey
barrier of rest
that drop-off stretch
where consciousness swirls
into dreamscape a glimpse
of masks hovers near
familiar stairway just out
of reach in a shimmery pool
where French might arise
or wakefulness suddenly
disrupt the journey inward
then the windows are too
bright and the glitch of apnea
breaths irksome there is
no good spot for cat or arm
and mouthguard clenched does
not soothe nothing there
in the dark of wakeful nothing
but desire left over from over
tired resistance
and wish for merge
swish of electric brain wash
to switch mind into dream mode
and leave thought behind

I traipse through this slow
fastidious period, fibrous
and lobular, with no known cause

too stiff to split or arch
all the way behind me
too cautious to kick
box or wrestle an oiled body
into a homo-erotic clutch

sometimes, while glancing
toward the layers of my own
collage, a pang of futility
wedges between glue
and yellow formica table

then, reminded of the fleet
passage here, I lean forward
and slightly left, cross my limbs
tilt gently to one side, and smear
“YES” paste on the back of an opaque
doorway, glue a blue flower
below a small pink rose

Into my childhood room,
pink gingham, flowers and ruffles,
the moon shone, the street lamp glowed.

In those early days, the light felt mine,
felt honest, felt somewhere possible.
It peered into the double paned windows,
beamed onto street, fire hydrant, driveway.
That light was a smiling light, a familiar light,
a night glow. Its after dark shine streamed
warm into my eyes as I drifted toward dream.

Later, the moon and I waxed
and waned together. We synchronized.
My bloated emotions swelled
under the moon’s growing round
expanded with the increasing circumference.
And when I bled, the moon began to ebb.

It took until my late 20‘s to calculate my cycles
with the lunar cycles. I could feel the expansion
of my waters, the rising tides of emotional intensity,
the eruptive drama of full-moon. And then the wane,
in a sweet mellowing from crazy wrath to peaceful joy,
from extreme distraught
to mellow pleasure, my middle years
swelled and flowed with moonlight.

Now, as the wane of hormones circles
into longer cycles, as my ovaries
sputter and decline surge, I ride
a more even keel from one moon to the next
still note magnetic pull
as moon fits its light into darkness,
and appreciate the white-beam power
But my body does not respond in literal assent.
I have stepped to the sidelines of luminescent
dominion to more objective light.
A glimmer within.

a blip on the meninges
sends her into dark
spinal frenzy

she can hardly twist
to look over
the shoulder

of this road
where bluffs erode
into a cacophonous sea

so many birds
lift in unison

caw as they pass

swoop through
the deafening spray

she determines the ligaments
where inflammation
could mean growth

holds tight to the perverse
possibility that stiffness
might serve her better

than accommodation has
might help her build
fire walls to guard

against the tides
slammed against
the edges of this land

the injury to her hyoid
bone caused a constant
choke hold

she’d swallow as if
the cherry pit she felt
were natural
as if the strangle hold
were a phantom limb
extracted from her neck
and swallowed

the fear lodged itself
in her omohyoid
and her shoulders
pulled forward
chin jutted

still, over the brambled years
she could imagine him
slamming his body
toward her soft palette
the viscous saltiness
thick on the back
of her throat

she rarely cried out after that
but swallowed her pain
and shouldered
insistent shoves
relentless demands
hands pushing her
head down

hands clouding
like a softly drugged
mind-set, the open
channel she vaguely
remembered
on her crown

into the mirror she alters
perspective in order
to salvage some coherence

amidst the whirl
of myriad personas
anger is her 3rd rail

a dangerous electricity
inhabits her low back

afternoon reflects her outline
a suspect genealogy
someone of partial remembrance

a bony contour
a hand-me-down clock
the leotard her body danced

she exchanges herself with time
emerges partial
to her own integration

mistook pride
for contempt in
an on-line quiz

sneer of self-importance
vs. inward smile
EQ mastery
via actors’ expressions

how to imply rage
without eyes leveled
vehement dart of distrust or

how to convert camera
into love by a turn
of the cheek a glance
into discerning lens

part of what we know
is a translation from
remark to sensate
therein the chemistry
secreted messages
interface with breath
mood emerges

we hover in habitual
despair too sensitive
for milk and cheap shoes

our plantar fasciitis aches
as soon as our feet touch
the hardwood floors

this preference for Egyptian
cotton and eco-friendly
cleansers exceeds the peri-

menopausal spotting while
quietly, in retro-linoleum
kitchens, we admit to kegels

our fears of flaccid
vaginal walls outweigh
taboos friendships bridge

disembodied, I wafted
from one broken facet to another
all terrified and calcified along my spine
interrupted messages, unnerved and random
caused a plaintive quality, a nasal timbre
as if the only option were; cry

to hoist each fragment
out of the mine shaft
of solitary confinement
seemed paralyzing
but it didn’t pay to rattle around
in my own echo chamber any longer
life was time sensitive
and the double hemispheres
had synchronized, patience had worn thin
sensuality, with its humor,pithy and hot
wanted a faster train of thought

the challenge to un-split despite
constricted potentials outside the box
and the purported marginality
of a gender neutral stance
came as a fantastic consequence
there were no caveats, no expectations
the only repetitive stress could be assuaged
with symbolic gestures: a Ganesh shirt
an expandable Buddha; the photo gallery in my Droid

the Rainrap, ineffective in east coast October
and the 33 De Camp bus, slightly late
hand-picked rendez vu’s allowed for
the arc of self over four decades, unapologetic autonomy

whenever we celebrate this many shuffled-over years
our multi-generational perplexity can soften
a congruity of forgiveness and mutual sorrow
crippling stories and generosity
renew the common thread
balancing genetic with chosen

we may close our eyes
or open them
without grave dangers
resonating forward
from various pasts
and when the song comes
we can sing

she struggles with her reptilian
brain, hedonic and reactive
the age old desire to store fat

her goal fluctuates as if
lifetime is a range adapted
from an on-line chart

small signs of age gather
in her larder; individually
wrapped snacks and berry fruities

zen moments are impeded by a widening
gap beside the right incisor and the daily
search for misplaced progressive lenses

lithe memories abound
the resonant thrill of eye to eye
contact, first kisses all over the globe

equilibrium keeps elusive company
mood swings and intermittent blood
in exchange for metered rhythms

all of the self-care sign-posts
have similar fonts in big letters
soft curves and a welcome-in aspect
she hovers at the back of a morning
meeting, sports a make-shift badge
and new age water bottle

with the onslaught of celery and persistent
calculation around portion control
she shifts her weight

she explores dignity’s
dimensions
bends metal
with her mind

this motivational surge
compelled by conviction
not truth
is interrupted by “DROID” alerts

she ponders the plodding
accuracy of artisans
[if the railing turns a corner
inaccurate measurements
can occur]
so many studs to consider

she finally sees the difference
between brain machinations
and anvil
parallel fires

as she descends
into her sanctuary
full of unread Taoist tomes
decades of paper to shred

stock travel in trucks
edible leaves out of reach

in this car, self portraits
accumulate in virtual piles

some friends do not reply
but share salient articles

daily vocabulary appears
plenary, in single incidents

the feel of dreams, deep
in hypothalmic juice

the sink is polished,
mayonnaise away, order reigns

We weren’t serious but had to be electrically adept, get the attic door painted, and re-grout the bathroom. My affective filter registered low so it was time to choose a Life Stage Management plan. Nano was the new mini and we couldn’t honestly hang that blue fruit basket in the kitchen without impinging our view into the desiccated front yard. We were roaming around with head lice in an identity piece connected to suffragettes. There was the hope of a reflective partner, someone with a well developed angular gyrus , able to utilize a stepping stone approach. Once we’d covered the basics of organization-navigation and located application pointers in the dock, we were ready to unlock each others’ passwords. We found what we wanted by rotating our desktops then put the house icon on top.

we echo like se awful
remake poorly filtered

cross our arms and look
down on the trendy

grimace of the ten
year old as he confronts

his empty wishing well
full of cell phone fantasy

and late night swims
hidden in the dark

a place our aging
hearts rarely venture

that death place
that earliest fall

his thumb joints
will wear thin
and capitals
disintegrate
the espresso
pulled long
run cold

even with the ringer
off I hear the Droid
buzz sense my sons’ calls
one wants to drop-by
the younger needs his compression shorts

long distance friends insist
their way past my determined
persona past my candle-lit
intention into various conversations

e-mails bing on the multi-window screen
Attend! Attend! they command beyond
power of choice while Facebook lures
demonic detachment to scroll past everyone
else’s breast cancer, freedom, publication
exhaustion and articles pop-up to Exclaim!
Proclaim! Declaim! while meager efforts to refrain
from merging with virtual traffic
take all the energy I can muster

my husband, ensconced in legalese does not
even know I’ve texted my loneliness from
the dry autumn trail where ghosts do Tai Chi
and dog walkers attempt to communicate
as I pass by in search of a more expansive view
one where the tops of trees and blue sky outweigh
the risk of wanting or needing to cry

smart boards lit with variables
that slip from one side of the equation
to the other, sans warning

the redolence of spike lavender
tangerine, rosemary oils dripped
onto the diffuser and plugged-in

effervescence reminiscent of outdoors
within reach, the way fingerless gloves
ameliorate the ride to school

tiny buddha statuaries held
captive in tiny ziplock bags
our personal trigger fingers, turgid

neurogenic memories disrupt
dinner table conflict as the latest
admonishment puts everyone en garde

historic slurps or the grate-and-isolate
of echolalia prove some point while
we collect unconscious vestiges

wax encrusted candelabras and myriad
lamentations, the claw marks of a gassed
generation, the prostate of a survivor

haunted, we cannot fathom our distinct
despair until after the downward spiral
in pink flannel pj’s to purple velvet solace

in the blue-light-blink of wireless speakers
the sympathetic nervous system’s disorderly
conduct, our contiguous traumas unravel

a dimmed amber light beckons the comfort
zone of sorrow, the welcome back of a Yoda
bandaid perched like hope on Pandora’s wrist

after a psychic download
that vituperative attempt
to undermine autonomy
the gravel-voiced men
shrug-off misogyny

her hybrid escape idles
the dead stream
and her trusty droid
recites its name
into the ambient void

up an open stairway
a tuxedo cat mewls

the eccentric intellectuals
dissect a translated walk-about
can the song-lines of an Israeli mother
magic realism intact
tortured lover in tow
reflect a whole gender
on the constant brink
or is this another pilgrimage
into imaginary remains
uncertain

within 24 hours
a new Non-Fiction takes over

a deflated I love you balloon
leans into oncoming traffic

speed limit sign flashes: 39,
35, 40, 32 and cars slow

fuel efficient engine purrs
to the Grateful Dead

gliding, almost autonomous
into afternoon

compose the Disappointment
Symphony or, Disillusion
Études in Varied Voice

world too large to balance
in bifurcated concept
not either-or anymore

too many boulders
and land mines and oh,
what weather

don’t listen to speeches
politicians’ generic smiles
glisten

it’s a first come first serve
narrative with all the jobless boys
lined up

we have to art
our way through
with deep chords

the only
resistance left
sound wave

Monday, I put it in my pocket,
rub it smooth to soothe my nerves.

Tuesday, I try to scale it.
Enormous, looming it takes all my strength.

Wednesday, I kick it out of my way,
inconsequential pebble in my path.

Thursday, sit on it. Look out at the horizon.
Feel small compared with geologic time.

Friday, wear it. Bedecked, bejeweled, glistening
and weighted I feel protected by earthly wealth.

Saturday, walk into its cave cool dankness
to escape the glaring sun. Awed by form.

Sunday, waft through with immense faith
that there is another side to this hardness.

the purple stone stolen
with my journal
and the woven bag
inherited from a cryptic poet

all taken from the white car
window I’d left open a crack
in front of a medical building
when i recover the secret will be out

i wrote you into the truth
you whom i carried across
the empty threshold
of stolen time

above the country
plenty of 1st class arm
space and documents

the news is all about Iraq
insurgency and the beheaded

which ever chosen language
co-opted accent of refugee
vs. shameful vernacular

the stiffness of L-5, S-1 coincides
with various rainy days

ignore disjointed information
focus on seat belt explanations
and exit row agreements

carry a picture jasper stone
to breathe into once in a while

concentrate on the immeasurable
moment where altitude at top speed
propels time forward to satiate wish

glacial ablation
since ages
vaporous trends
what roils below eye level
fathoms of cold
calved and churned
the disappeared
traveler transformed
from one solid state
to empty space

first there was the flood
mushrooms grew
between rug and wall

students wrote in the stench
mildew and herbal tea
sage and dank earth

water seeped up onto kitchen
tiles, between concrete grout
puddled under yellow formica table

when it was time to pack
the cabinets poured years
of supplies onto counter tops

reams of colorful paper and boxes
of drying ink collided with scraps
of ribbon and glue sticks

the doll collection was lowered
into containers carefully; babies
and Barbies wrapped in tissue

even the heirloom doll was boxed
away in her layers of wool and lace
her porcelain face covered

and the myriad magazines
hoarded for collage work
were stacked into crates

as each object went into a box
the barren room
succumbed to emptiness

Shinook speakers painted
red iron oxide pigment
on basalt rock

tally marks
of vision quest creatures
from spirit world
zig zag lines
exit their heads

a pledged family
of cañon wrens soars
above the owlish face
of She Who Watches

it’s a cold basement gray outside
the phone disrupts a simple quiet

severed from the outdoors
by a lazy quest for warm and dry

houseplants languish beside the clothes-
rack drooped with lycra garments

triangular beaks of seagulls on the Japanese bedspread
flash across their dim ochre sky

downstairs fake gunshots ring out in an electronic splash
and traverse various spinal nerves

notice the lure of sleep reflected in the tuxedo
cat curled on the purple couch

angel selves overlap
data fills empathic void

perforations impasse
challenge opposite coasts

weather eradicates evidence
friends bridge a new cirque

the archivist
and the sculptor

lust after geometric application
nothing comes between

these earth seams
divots in ice
alone in melt
circular glow

cities blend reflective vision
dive into another loss
swirl without years end
and bleed into currency

shaped for imaginary
disappearance the strands
disconsolate and empty

a blown-out future
meager modulation
hoped for shadow casts
a cirque of uncertainty

the volume turns up
on global melt
down

the great fog
of death provokes
insomnia

slow twitch fibers require
more time to kick-in
the skinny PT encourages
use of vaginal weights
while she stands at her sink
rinses organic lettuce
pulls the string on the spinner

15 minutes into her body
repetitive contractions peak
in a bright red line
on the computer screen
she bends her knees
lifts inside herself
deep central levator
ani up toward core-heart
keeps breathing and talks
her way through death
weans her child
flattens her belly
supports her waning bladder

they take more oxygen
she realizes, as if breath
might be the answer once again

the rami formed in terror
disrupted slow build
reinforced quick-twitch
and she flew in fear, shivered
quaked, held her breath
let go of the power built
in solitary silence
that which lifts us over time

we echo like some awful
remake poorly filtered
cross our arms and look
down on the trendy
grimace of the ten
year old as he confronts
his empty wishing well
full of cell phone fantasy
and late night swims
hidden in the dark
a place our aging
hearts rarely venture
that death place
that earliest fall

the snow
is disappearing
someone turned
the volume up
on global melt
down while lately
the great fog
of death warranted
insomnia

it is the echo
of myself I want
to talk to
now out
of the ashes
to tell me
how this story-frond
unfurls
replicated boys
gather over and over
brotherly lovely
grief stilled
in peripheral urns
boxed and bound
banter ricochets
across rooms
or via satellite
everyone ends up
laughing at the same
songs the winning score
when my tall son smiled
near the end of his season
after another 3 points
years of bleachers
hidden sorrows
grave visits mellowed
tell her she knew
how to grow into
this future self
let her in on a secret
the story is easy
follow the path

Ahh, the dangers
of a symbolic mind,
so connected to detritus,
so fond of the fading water
stain on a poster-tube
with its blue Par Avion sticker
still intact.

it’s good paper, I think
as the mauve pile
slips into the printer-slot
his bold font choice
faced away
the list of gigs obsolete

my play is all about the dead
how their voices echo
and I print it out
with a smirk

it’s still too soon to write
his character out of my head
what, with the old vice grips
yet to sell, these resumes to recycle
and the earlier deaths to purge

She sat cross legged
On the lambskin rug
Her grandparents brought
From New Zeland
When she was six

untested cough
and ague subside
while somewhere else
an aged woman coughs
into thin air

she is still my mother
even as isolation
deprives our shared breath
even as my voice weakens
against the strain of distance

for Diane & Roxlyn

billow of breath
circumferential
ease open
close easily
new air spreads its bounty
inside varied body-mind

on the sagittal plane
travel back toward not yet
open cautious
honor walled-off inspiration
what was left behind gathers
into exhale

in the intricate poetics of voice
from hum forward thyroid
to soft eeee arytenoid
breath crosses chasms
find deep cartilage
vibrate bone initiate
authentic sound
out of murmur into silence