MOUNTAIN PASS, 5 A.M. (Fifth/final draft)

Where is the last edge
Of darkness and where
Does the light hide in the morning
Before it peeks out from the
Ridiculous clouds?
Silly me, he thinks. Is this
What transition means?
He watches the moon set over
The hills as he walks,
Sees the sun rising in the east.
It is not yet day, so
He strolls on
Tongue-tied and lost,
Giving most of his attention
To the slight, invisible sounds
And the purple,
Lengthening shade.

MOUNTAIN PASS, 5 A.M. (Third draft)

Where is the last edge
of darkness and where
does the light hide in the morning
before it peeks out from the
ridiculous clouds.
Look at me,he thinks.
This is what transition means: 
He sees the moon setting over
the hills as he walks,
the sun about
to rise in the east.
It is not yet day, so
He strolls on
(tongue-tied and lost),
paying attention mostly
to the slight, invisible sounds
and to the purple,
lengthening shadows

MOUNTAIN PASS, 5 A.M. (First draft/one instant fix)

This is the transition:

Where is the last edge

of the darkness

and where does the light

of morning hide

before it decides

to peek out from the

lethargic clouds. Look at me,

he thinks. It is not yet

day.  He sees the moon

setting over the hills

as he walks,

the sun about 

to rise in the east.

He strolls on tongue-tied and mute,    

paying attention mostly

to the small sounds and the

lengthy shadows.

STONES

the gap-toothed

girl sits by

the great lake, 

her sweatered arms

hugging herself

against the cold.

Sometimes 

I envision the two

of us 

beneath the moon

and stars, the sun

and rain, even in

the driving now,

and we are looking

out across the water,

laughing our fool

asses off, the two

of us 

skipping stone after

stone, one for 

the luck of just being 

there and

one for each 

of our 

dying dreams.

SOME OF THE BIBLE'S GREATEST HITS

In the beginning

a man and a woman

have a snack

and think, "oh, god,

what have we done?"

and their sons invent

homocide

while Abraham's hand

wavers over Isaac,

moses juggles two

tablets as he

climbs down from

the mount,

and Noah counts

the tortoises

on the Lido deck.

Joseph wears

a multi-colored 

coat that ends

up Off-Broadway

while Samson gets

his haircut by

a vixen. Solomon

is wise, Job has it

bad, and David

is king, although he

does some naughty

things to get there.

In the second act,

there is a star

and a virgin

and a confused carpenter

and John the Baptist's

head 

on a platter

but before that,

there is a humble

man who speaks of peace

and gives the world

his outstretched

arms, the very ones 

they took and nailed

to a hateful, wooden world.

THIS POEM, RIGHT HERE

this is as close

as I've ever been to freedom

the word on

the page that liberates me

soothes my confusion

offers a remedy to the madness

keeps me off the streets

holds my hand when I'm about to sob

and rubs my tired temples

after a long day's work

and tells me, "there, there,

honey, it'll be all right."

STRAWBERRIES IN THE SNOW

And if a strawberry in the snow

was a gift between us

it might mean we'd answered

our own questions, discovered

an infinity, and found

the red-throated sustenance 

we've searched so 

long for. Watch now, 

as I hold the crimson fruit 

at the wet edges of our lips

and see how it sings

against the whiteness of 

another pure-hearted winter.

STAR SNIPPING

From your porch

the endless stars

shine like silver holes

that have been

shear-snipped

from the black

blanket of night

as if you were

the only one with

scissors between

your fingers and

blood on your palms.

Is there a greater

darkness than

wanting? A greater

yearning than shaping

the infinite heavens

into a pattern fit

to be sewn? 

Above you,

the halved autumn

moon tips in the sky,

and it slices through

the ambivalent clouds.

THE ANTI-HERO'S JOURNEY

Some revelations come to us
as music, some as magic, and
some as myths whose stories,
like damp black soil, grow
such perfect heroes
and gods that we
already know
when we first
learn of them
that their skills
exceed our
dreaming
and their
power
exceeds
our
reach.

AUTUMN FROM A DISTANCE

hemingway once said
write the truest sentence
you know, but
how can I? The only poetry
I have in me are
the pictures she sends
of meadows greener
than magazine photos
and trees with leaves
so gold they are currency
for my eyes.

SUBURBAN WALK (5 A.M.)

The pre-dawn sky
is nothing but an
indigo blanket
the tips of the trees
silent & motionless
the branches
skinny & naked
leaning toward
the silver stars
extended like hands
that are praying
or dying or both.
Sprinklers hiss & spit
in the darkness,
hoping to green the lawns
of their owners.
Suddenly, a jackrabbit bursts
from a bush, its left
eye riveted to my chest.
Along the avenue
cars are jet black
silhouettes
their engines
turned to ice
beneath their hoods.

SOCIETY'S RIVER

the minister cradles
our heads
over society's
river of indifference
and thrusts our crown
below the surface,
while invoking
the name of God
in a voice tinged
honey and lust.
Every day, he tells
us later, we live out
our baptism.
He doesn't know
the half of it.

BY THE SEA

sometimes I
sit near the bay
on an iron bench
& I lean my head back
against the wall.
with slow, even breaths,
I consider the universe.
sometimes meditation
is an escape
and sometimes it’s just
escaping & yes,
there is a difference.

IGNORING NORTH PARK

You say I’m not

allowed to mention

the rose that was

so red I could see it

in the shadows

even when the entire
room was blanketed in 

romantic darkness. 
Don’t mention 
the house, you say,

that sat in a line of

houses in that

neighborhood of

quaint, old homes,

and yet was different

than the others simply

because they had never

guarded a private moment

of mine, a moment

whose beauty made

my heart explode

like summer fireworks. 

Fine. I won’t mention them

(If that’s what you want)

but they will still

burn and burn and burn

like a flame 
in the part of me

where speech has

been exiled.

MY MORNING CRUSADE

In a house as dark

and quiet as sin,

the silence is no comfort

and when you least

expect it, that not peace

is shattered by a barking

dog or a ringing phone

which, if we bothered

to count, is always some

kind of debt collection.

It’s a kind of miracle,

then, that this morning  

this coffee cup

is my sword and this book

is my shield and as the

hounds torture the

last scrap of tranquility

and the garbage men

violate the cans in

the alley

I am saved

by a few decent lines

and the hot, steamy pleasure

of the hazelnut creamer

in my decaf

   

TOWARD OTIS ROAD

Somewhere 

in another world

she is driving

through the thick

green trees

separating the leaf

from the stem

splitting 

the thick boughs

with the nose 

of her car 

carving tunnels

through old

resistant trunks

releasing their

ancient brown stories

into the wind 

that caresses the highway 

somewhere

in another world

she is moving forward

in swift transition 

between where she is 

now

and where she’s 

going to be.

MONROE STREET CHRIST

a southwestern sun
bleeds through the
window in the front bedroom
where we lie
after a morning in the park
spent talking, holding hands,
and exploring.
our bodies are now spiritual
and holy
in the semi-dark,
our skin
once broken now
electric and vibrant,
nearly healed.
our warm flesh curled close
just after the joy and
abandonment of
the universal dance
that quenched desire
and filled the spirit.
yes, your touch was
nothing less than
a rhythm & blues
savior that brought
my flatlined body
and my Lazarus heart
back to life.

AFTER THE BLOOD MOON (OR: THE MONROE STREET ECLIPSE)

the two of us
now
looking up at the rose red moon
because sometimes
separate bodies
(though far away)
have been known to cross each other
and make a different kind
of light

THE FUTURE SLEEP

We almost closed our
eyes too long
when falling asleep
would have meant
giving in to the moment,
permitting an unguarded gesture
(we desired and deserved)
after love and so near
the rose, the flowered comforter,
and the slatted blinds shedding
their evening light
on our silver bodies.
yes, we almost closed our
eyes too long
and still that single
languid gesture
(no matter how desired)
was an acquiescence
we could ill-afford.

DOWNBEAT

I think of returning
her call
while the beatles
play in the background
their moptops flopping
in the theater of my memory
and as I run through
the things I might say to her
the stones are stomping
through my room in 4/4 time,
and before I know it
richards' guitar licks
are lighting my empty
bed on fire. moments
later, when I start
to punch her numbers
into my phone
and I hear the ringing
in my ears
CCR and the eagles
and fleetwood mac
battle it out,
springsteen and
aerosmith tag team
in the hallway and I'm nearly
unconscious as clapton
re-hardwires the synapses
in my brain.  When she
finally picks up
and says hello, I'm left
with one inescapable truth:
I'm old
enough that
the classic rock station
is a metaphor
for something.

HOLIDAY MIND

is it only
in dreams
where the day
unrolls perfectly
like a strip
of holiday
ribbon
where this
time your
ambivalent
God
finally allows
your twisted
subconscious
to choose
the width
and the color?

JUST THESE FEW MINUTES

I'm just looking for a few minutes

to get down the word

to forget for a moment 

the struggle

the struggle for dollars and cents

the struggle for the universe's praise

the struggle for the tiniest remnants of love

I'm just looking for a few minutes

to get down the word

to shake something loose

to document the red flowers

of the tattoo on the guy's arm

sitting in front of me

or how good The Monkees

feel coming through my earbuds

or the pealing laughter

of the unsupervised children

twirling in their own universes

near the restaurant's faulty soda machine.

MITTEN WEATHER

winter

never ends

where she is

and despite her

sincerest pleas

the fat snow

keeps falling,

whitening

the entire

unrepentant

earth.

HARDER TO GET THOSE KICKS

paul revere

and the raiders

get their kicks

and the 60s

and 70s come

flooding back

to me in the

all-you-can-drink

beverage bar

restaurant. and

even though

I'm listening

to their thirty year

ago voices, the

cool sounds 

come to me 

on my laptop

streaming through

the 21^st century

internet.

COOL BY DEFAULT

The 1970

Chevy Nova

my parents

gave me

when I was

old enough

had been

the family car.

for my sake,
they covered 

the forest green

with jet

black paint

and a red

pinstripe.

With a little
help from
my uncle,
they turned
the 325 engine

into a 375.

it sounded

pretty damned

good, to tell you

the truth. 

I remember

peeling out
once, not from

arrogance or rage

but because

nancy bucaro

was driving her

family's van

next to me.

afraid of rolling
in front of a girl,
I popped
the clutch too fast
and the wheels
spun out.
Guess I 
still wasn't

too good at

working the

four on the floor.

COMFORTER

I want to touch you

in the middle

of a formerly

snowy night

after the clouds

have cleared

where you lay

on your left side,

where your supple

body is turned

toward the window

where the curtains

are still as angels

where the moon

falls

through the

irregular slats

of your blinds

like a pearl-colored

comforter.