another thing fishing does

8 ft. bamboo pole
12 or so feet of line
a cork a hook a worm
and all afternoon
to think of little things

like the old guy
that lived next door to us
he died on the table
undergoing a routine proceedure

did I say anything
to him that morning as
he left his house alone?
I’m sure he
waved cheerfully
“good morning there”
he may have said
“hi” I could have answered

the cork sinks below
the surface
a short tug
it comes back up a stays

as he backed his Buick
out, past the hedge where I was
trying to find the baseball that
got by me
did he look to see if I was waving
goodbye?
I might have
I don’t recall now

I set the pole down in the grass
pull a beer from the cooler
and raise a toast to the sky
forty years too late

one more thing

since you have asked

I may have forgotten
to mention
a particular part
of the story

about
how I would take up
a cup of coffee
and walk the planked
walk down to
and beyond the dune line

this, before the sun graced
the horizon
this, below fading constellations
this, as mother turtles
returned to the surf

without looking back
at the mounds
of sand that marked
the places where they
had labored

did I touch upon
how the feeding
birds seemed to be
in a contra dance
with the waves?
this comparison
came to me as I walked

my feet following
no set path
among the deposited shells

did we talk at all about
the way the air
felt lighter there?
if not, my apologies,
but the air most
certainly felt
lighter there

and, if I failed to mention
how the ocean sounded
like a choir
you will have to forgive
me, my mind
tends to veer off
on occasion
my thoughts helplessly
tossed about
with other debris
gathered on that
shore there

anyway, the turtles
the mounds
and as I’ve said,
the beach

and eventually the sun
did arrive

breaking the plane
of dawn
illuminating me
as I tried to
forget the city

bones

a skeleton now
the only thing left

not quite silent
in its slow dervish

clicking out
reminders of something
that started out
a kind connection

finger bones
rattle in a rib cage
searching for a heart

teeth clack
for want of expressing
apology

an unfleshed foot
finds the tailbone
aiming for the ass
that is
no longer there

tierce

the pen
is most lazy tonight
lounging
with its cap pulled
down tight
next to
the journal
who tries to motivate
it with suggestions
of story lines
that revolve around sticky
social situations

what about insightful
observations on the
curiosities of the day?
the journal asks

the antics of animal life?
colorfully elaborated tales
of youthful adventure?

seriously? no commentary on
treachery and unrest
from misunderstood corners
of the world ?
the pen snorts but
doesn’t budge

the lamp
watching
from the corner of the desk
weighs in on this exchange
by retiring its light

the pen yawns
the journal stops trying
the lamp nods

and with little fan fair
the final notes
of King Solomon’s Marbles
guides the trio into
unconsciousness

sing

night hounds drag
corpses of conscience
past fire raged windows
nailed against
feral streets
delirium tremens
in one bulb rooms
wanting to dredge up pain
in order to sing
just
to
sing

the angels got involved

again
I can picture them rolling
their eyes
getting up from the couch
or putting down the rake
they will shrug and
clap the dust from
their hands
to pull me back from
the brink
again

they will tire of
this constant
deflection of danger
or stupidity eventually
letting me possibly
to set up a ladder clumsily
close to the power supply line
or allowing an icicle to fall
with deadly precision

if I follow the rules
close enough
they just might
let me fall asleep
in a hammock
my final dream
being
one of family or
a childhood pet
or maybe

one of an endless beach
the ocean breeze
carrying to me
the voice of my grandmother
saying how nice
it will be
to pick up the conversation
where we left off

house arrest

another afternoon
meditating on criminal
depravity
with a bowl of pretzels

I crunch on
arson rape murder
I chew on images of
embezzlement
kidnappings
terror in American homes
all this
and
more until the
bowl is empty

I push around the salt
at the bottom
with a dampened finger
stretching my interpretation
of horror

a spiral downward
only halted
by a granddaughter bursting
into the room
with flowers pilfered
from the neighbors garden
this too a crime

a crime
of innocence true enough
but as I watch another
war raging on the
television beyond
her gap-toothed smile
I can’t help but think

maybe
if only for her own good
a couple years of
house arrest
just might
be in order

watchkeepers

tick off frostcoat
mornings inlaid
with firestoned eyes
shake woolened hands
stomp downed boot break
fast with the matriarchal
denizens
of dawning corners
air greased coffee drowned
conversation slow
around subjects half
interesting but easy
the tab can be ran until
Thursday so again a cup
the bell rings
your exit up the blue banked
avenue to do your ten
and a half
bent over the fortunes
of unseen men
with minute-clocked precision
memory locked in fingertips
fading elsewhere
the day automatic piled with
cough arthritic blind
clone after cloned
parts for industrial partitioning
clinging to what little
there is left
for you to do
until the bell
rings your exit back
down that washed
up road past the diner
the evening has waited
your return with
without prejudice
into woodstove
will go split palletwood
useless mail
the evening paper
unread
the news is never
worthy of your attention
anyway

I answer three

shivering in my skivvies
in the small examination
room
waiting on the sawbones
to finish working
up a deal with
the drug rep

my eyes fell upon
the small chart employed
to signify level of pain

a grouping of five
stylistic representations
of the human face
the one on the far left
smiling like someone
who just won a couple of bucks
on a scratch-off lottery ticket

the middle one
with it’s mouth
a straight line
as if just hearing a
joke that was
no where near funny

and finally
the one on the right
it’s mouth in a frown
tears coming from
it’s shark like eyes

that’s not right I thought
there should be at least
two more

I would start with
one with its eyes closed
the corners of its mouth
turned slightly upward
blissfully un-pained

and the last one
should, I reasoned
have eyes at least
three times bigger
its teeth gnashing together
with at least
some indication of sweat

the doc swaggers in
his questions are just as
confusingly incomplete

on a scale of one to ten
he queries
how would you describe
your discomfort?

what happened to zero?
is he to assume we are always
in some kind of pain?
and what’s ten?
a broken bone
a horrible chemical burn
being disemboweled
by a rabid marmoset?

I answer three
I always answer three
his jokes are never
that good anyway

paranoia

the taste of
venom

taking
up host in glands
traveling along

a path
it burns
working to shut down
machinery
misdirecting reason

the smallest
questions grow into
thunderheads of terror

come the
dark
the dark

darkening words
intention stripped down
rebuilt as monster

each glance
grows a million eyes
your speech foreign
the air wields fists

the moment comes
in a
unnoticed explosion

it is
locked in
for good