taming beasts

putting old lions
to bed -looking at my hands-
truth, in scratches writ

I had just one thought
during my convelesence
o.k., maybe two

will I rest easy,
clear history from my head,
just be done with it?

and how to move on
clean of mind, and without a
sense of deja-vu?

some people dance some don’t

I fall into the
don’t ever dance column
mostly
except those times
I’ve tried
tap dancing at
the opportunistic
finding of myself alone

for a short time
in a cavernous space
with really good echo
an empty church maybe
or a gymnasium

also, I have been known to
perform a whiskey jig
fireside whilst camping
or at a barbecue
but, that’s about it

some people float – most don’t
not as many as I remember
anyway, I miss those days
I would wave with
childlike delight as
they drifted along
smiling in spite of the world

balloons above a parade
straining against
their tethers
without even realizing it

confession

confession

Gloria
I confess
I am that bicycle
that needs a fish

today I sat in a plastic chair

today
I sat in a plastic chair
on the patio
messing around with a
guitar I hadn’t played in a while

just a few chords
here and there between
sips of iced tea
clumsily picking runs
through scales I somehow
managed to remember

the cats were
in the window over
my shoulder, watching birds
and sniffing the June air
listening to me hack away
on a lazy afternoon

with their eyes closed
I suppose they thought
themselves cougars
lounging on branches of
forest trees
waiting for prey

and when I closed mine
I was Rodrigo
giving life to
a masterpiece for the world

I played as
hills rose all around me
the wind blowing off of Erie
became a
Mediterranean breeze

that carried
my Concierto
through the village
up to the ruins of the
citadel, for Roman
ghosts to weep over

advice

my advice to you, you see,
if you are thinking of leaving

anything behind, let it be,
(to keep the world wondering)

a great big ol’ empty hole
so that all of those

who come to the show
after you, will be

left with the task
of filling it with
all of those things

that made you
what you were
in being

pictures in lockets

the child
is now an angel
on a chain
this because
a madman
wished retribution
for the actions of
other madmen
the child
is an angel
on a chain

the young man
is an angel
on a chain
the recipient
of fear and hatred
unable to walk
without motives
questioned
he’s become
an angel
on a chain

the man
is an angel
on a chain
his Abraham
was not the same
as some others
Abraham
the man, now
an angel
on a chain

the woman
is an angel
on a chain
choices forced
upon her
by forces
stacked against her
another woman
becomes
an angel
on a chain

another weekend in Eden

another Friday night
well,
so far as they knew
anyway, Adam
lounging against a rock
no navel
to absently poke
a finger into
no walls for
mirrors to torment
Eve with vanity
or self doubt
they had only themselves
to finish each others sentences

about the kaleidoscope
of foliage,
the strange antics
of the recently named animals,
and the mysterious being
occasionally spotted wandering
through paradise

and so they
carried on
blissfully ignorant

trying not to listen
to the suggestions
of one creature,
the one
hyperactively bouncing
on his still
intact legs,
the one
with the wet lisp
the one
yelling
“let’s this party started!”

potter

in an earlier life was
she a maker of vases?

I can picture her
at the wheel or
coiling dampened clay

fusing the coils
with a flat bone
held with fingers delicately
designed for such work

her head tilted
to better see the emergence
of perfect contour
her hair a single long braid
secured with a length of satin
or perhaps a simple
leather lace

and if I was there
would I have held the
same wonderment
as I do now?

seeing her as she
shapes everything she
sets her touch to

forming gifts
from unformed dreams
then rinsing the
residue from her hands
with tears of
happiness

Feng Shui my ass

my shin
is the last to learn of
the new configuration
for the coffee table

having traversed these spaces
for years without incident
I’ve never noticed
anything amiss
concerning the energy here

but now,
as I massage
the divot in my leg,
while
the siamese nuzzles
up against the table
right at the point
of the assault
(thereby letting me know
that it remains her property
regardless of placement ),

I can’t help but notice
an unmistakeable
lowering in
the harmonic vibration
of the room

where I usually go during an argument

let’s just throw a tarp
over the whole disgusting mess

better yet
a Moroccan rug

I’ll pretend to be a trader of
spices, like those depicted in its
intricately woven patterns

you can pretend I actually
have the capacity to decipher
what’s going on here