Got an email from a high school pal a few minutes ago. He was wondering where I've been. Since I've been right here, I can only assume he was speaking in terms of this blog. Sadly I let the blog fall into arears and Typepad shut it down for awhile. Since I've been posting most of my work (poetry and photos) on Facebook, I let the blog slide. Apologies for that.
So, for those of you who follow me here but not on my other social media sites, here's a quick recap on what I've been doing...
Here are a few of the pieces I've been working on.
We all want to deliver that perfect line.
To a lover as he leaves. To the in-laws,
the collection agent, the guy who stole
our parking spot. We all want words
To leap to our defense and dispense
the killing blow. At the right moment
to go for the throat and leave the bastard
who hurt us choking on his own blood.
But that's not life. That's every movie
we've allowed to be our mentor. That's
Double Oh Seven with a martini in one hand
and a Walther PPK in the other.
Just a little too precious, a little too posed,
a little too perfect, a little too rose,
a little too shiny, a little too flounce,
a little too smug and a little too bounce.
Life is kneeling beside the hospital bed
of someone you love. Life is a convincing
forgery. A one-armed boxer. Life is herding
frogs. Life is pushing the car home.
Life is arriving alone in a strange town
on the 3 a.m. Greyhound with seventeen dollars
and two smokes in your pocket and praying
for the strength to start over.
§ § §
Even years sober, the drunk
inside me is alive
and well. He follows me
Like last week
we're at a friend's wedding
(he's drinking bourbon,
I'm drinking water)
And he says, "Ice sculptures
are like the deathbed
of someone who's made
He's always saying things
like that. I congratulate the bride
while drunk me
Gets a refill
and the giant swan
at the middle of it all
melts slowly into heaven.
§ § §
THE WEAVERS' SON
Childhood never fit him
well, like a sweater
woven in haste
and more for its stripe
than its size. He squirmed
at the sleeves of himself.
In that twisted garment
was an old man
by a fire, longing
to be elsewhere.
Just imagine the faces
of his parents,
when first they saw
him, the words
dropping like needles
from their mouths.
§ § §
A few from the streets...
§ § §