There is a distant look in your eyes

wistful as though you are looking into the distance

in your stillness you are holding a flower

you know the future

you have a feeling of what is to come.

A bee swirls around me

buzzing, insistent, sending a warning—

        You can do nothing but watch.

This is the concept that keeps me in the present

it implies surrender, serenity

the bee continues to haunt —

        That’s right, it’s snarls, you can do nothing

        and when danger comes, you will know

        you couldn’t have done anything different

        and when joy comes, the bee continues

        you will think you have a reprieve

        reprieves never last

        they are brief

        and tragedies are eminent.

When I gaze into your eyes

I am calmed by your 1891 resilience

you are the daughter who says—

        I understand.

I can feel the air move as the bee comes closer

and you remind me, like the bee, be still.

splattered windshield bug

wanted to be a poem

flicking wipers on

To write a poem
is to walk in faith, each word
a small provision,
sustaining scrap of manna,
part of an answered prayer.

A wizard I am not
besot by steel balls
brain knotted mere flot-
sam in the drink
getting got by the machine
fraught
in slight delays of thought
another quarter in the slot
embarrassment was bought

I have multiball
on my third ball
tracking three balls
now I can’t fall
right?

bumpers buzzers
bells blares
bright lights and bold sounds
beautifully rhythmic
but only if there’s talent

the balls band together
in triangular formation
transporting me to Galaga
kamikaze aliens

this is a moment I cannot fail at
this is where I turn the whole game around

when it’s late
and it’s just you and me
way, way beyond the time
for me to speak my heart

my little ship
overwhelmed
freezes

fumbling fingers
fling frenetic
flippers fraction-
ally too early
and I watch
so much potential
slip
one
two
three           
into oblivion

shoot again
is not highlighted

You can count on this mean old world
to hide a rattler beneath the steps 
to the hot tub on a moonless night,

vibrate the penny off the rail
just as train wheel comes along
to flatten it,

open a hole in the grocery sack with the limes,
put the winning Powerball numbers 
in your neighbor’s head,

and, the last straw, rain on lawn mowing day, 
exiling old Jim indoors, staring out the bay window, 
hands in pockets, 

cursing every rotten thing in this life,
including his wife, who’s knitting the scarf 
with which she’ll strangle him.

Miss Olive Oil
is her name.
A rat terrier
with neighborhood fame.

She walks the gravel
without any fear.
At 19 years old,
she can barely hear.

But there is no stopping
this girl of mine.
She is strong-willed
and obnoxious at times.

She loves her cookies,
at least 6 per day.
If she doesn’t get one,
don’t get in her way.

The ears go back,
and she turns with a huff.
Marches to her bed,
a real pissed-off pup.

With that side-eyed stare,
looking up as I pass.
She makes me feel guilty
and wants to kick my ass.

Oh Miss Olive Oil,
you love your treats.
Still at 19 years old,
cookies are all you want to eat.

of unfailing, timely arrival, 
of east to west,
of twilight to morn,
of drought and grain,
of bloom and bleach,
of maternal warmth,
of vengeful incineration,
of calendar and tradition,
of worship and loathing,

I will finally fall asleep again 
beneath the aurora.

We gnaw at our global apple,
the starved worm of our curiosity
digging past roots of old knowledge,
spitting the seeds of ancient cities.

So vested in our investigations,
we dig through ancient Serdica
through stone stacked on bone,
emerging short of any coveted shore,
just shy of New Zealand.

But New Zealand was never new anyway,
just like here is always somebody’s there –
just a name for the end of a worm’s zealous tunnel.

So we’d surface to sink
into nonchalant waves.
That is, if we don’t first dissolve
into the mute molten metal,
the core of iron and nickel
pulling us inward –
the magnetic force of all burning questions,
a furious force
to melt all but hunger.

pestling novel noise,