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?