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.