you are a beam of light in a night
that would steal me
the color of what morning
now means
a breath in a chest I left
twisted with doubts
the release and relief inside
of my peace
with you,
the air softens as it explodes
all around me
there’s no alphabet for how you
fall into place
you’re my floodgate and levee
wide open
the rain and right words
without any waste
Hail broke against glass.
Whirlstorm of leaves in the rain,
then the shock of light.
one last gasp
before the
day ends
one last moment
before I
start anew
one last chance
before I am
too late and too soon
Screens are blinding
this old man: visions
of things seen by no one
these measley offerings
add nothing to my off-
spring’s desire
*****
Going blind is never a blessing
my mother said in 1949,
whatever took her sight
took her life
and the young boy of myself
intuited that she’d seen enough
*****
Those sights of backwater Brooklyn
above the produce wholesaler
an olfactory of rotting fruit
remain crystal clear
while the now of Temple
Terrace fades to blurry
*****
Off balanced I have fallen
clarity a lost friend
but still there’s Dr. Hue,
Penelope and my loving sister
who saw the peace of Europe
before the evil came
*****
American Dutch Russian Jew
my family fractures before birth
and all that badness just a distant
madness, what was it for
Arendt calls it merely banal
where the monsters imply
*****
nothing personal, just doing jobs.
Our lives in this condo courtyard
Dr. Hue says is an actual mirage
of us in the act of passing…
Penelope suggests the Dali Museum
for the collective spectacle
She sleeps, tiny frame tucked
in corners, on couches, in laps
not quite settled into positions
less accommodating.
Eye of the storm,
bringer of calm,
biter of ankles,
unquestioned queen
of the sitting room.
To the gentle tyrant
whose voice quiets
the violence of silence,
whose paws fill
the ache of empty days,
whose warmth provides
on nights eclipsed by loneliness,
we pay tribute.
Because of you
I train
for fights
I’ll never have,
for fights
I’ll never win.
Though I know
my strength
in theory.
I’ve never
put it to practice.
My wit, will, and wile
remain only
known
to me.
The Bitch in my head says I’m a Scar On the Universe.
She exaggerates
You’ve told me before you have a hard time
writing about things that make you happy.
I like to think that’s why
you never write about me anymore.
