Sunday, December 24, 2006

Loch Raven Review     Two of my poems appear in the Winter Issue of Loch Raven Review. "Yukon" is new, while "Lifeline" was first published in this blog in February 2005. 10:32:33 AM    Poems  comments []

	Sunday, November 12, 2006

Eight legs with which to beat it   I found a spider in my bathtub. helluva place for a spider to be, in a bathtub.   he was smallish and thin, this spider, about the size of a fingernail.   big enough, though, to bite me in the ass given the opportunity.   and why not? what better things has a spider to do?   why has he made his way up to the second floor bathroom if not to bite me in the ass?   he knows it and I know it and somehow I respect him for it.   I look at this spider and I know he is all about the fight.   but he doesn't know about me. he can't fathom the human thought process or the options it provides here.   I could stomp him flat -- problem solved. but that wouldn't be very nice.   I could shoo him away, except that he would come back to exploit my weakness and bite me you know where.   no, neither of those choices will do.   instead I grab a slim rectangle of glossy cardboard paper from the trash bin, the kind that falls out of a magazine.   I encourage the spider to climb on board so that I can relocate him outside in what passes for nature around here.   but he won't stay put, won't stay on the card long enough for me to get him to the open window.   he keeps coming at me this arachnid-warrior. he wants to bite me, sure as shit, inject me full of his venom --  this is his instinct -- this is his right.   my instinct, now that we are doing battle, is to fling him into the toilet, flush him away as quick as I can -- which I do, my heart strangely quickened.   as the toilet recharges and quiets, I stand and wonder about my decision. will the spider survive his water flume ride down into the subterranean world? I don't see why not.   rats have been known to make the journey in reverse order, climbing up the pipes and out of the toilet bowl. that's a fine howdy-do. you hear about this sort of thing happening in New York City tenements.   no question what I'd do there. pack my bags and move to Topeka. the rats win hands down. there's a different kind of natural order in New York City, one that I'm ill-equipped to handle.   I'm thinking my spider is o.k. and is already adjusting to his new spider life, setting up house in a sewer pipe. hell, I did what I could for him.   it seems that in the end regarding spider relocation somewhere between compassion and cruelty is the flush.   but, I'll leave the ethics to the ethicists. I'm going to have a hot bath. 11:12:47 AM    Poems  comments []

	Sunday, August 06, 2006

Bait and switch   The ants march in, the ants march out. Across my kitchen countertop. In the morning with squinting eyes I can barely see them tiptoeing around the coffee pot. Little black ones. Tiny, really. Nevertheless...the ants march in, the ants march out. Hundreds of them. I go to the hardware store and purchase Raid brand Ant Baits. Raid, you know, kills bugs dead. Says so right on the packaging. Ant baits are tidy little houses of poison that fit snugly in corners where the ants march in, the ants march out. The ants carry the poison to where they breed. Soon, I am promised, they will be gone. The Raid company has put its best chemical engineers on the job. They guarantee success. They wear lab coats. Thank heaven for Raid brand Ant Baits.   In Guatemala there is a jungle house where the ants also march in, the ants also march out. Of course they do. The jungle house has an earthen floor. The Raid chemical engineers just shrug their shoulders: What can we do?  The owner of the jungle house is not so bothered by the ants. His jungle house has a thatched roof. Living in the thatched roof are critters. The mice scurry in, the mice scurry out. Rats. Lizards. In. Out. They keep the family awake at night. Sometimes there is a snake up there, too. In the thatched roof. The snake slithers in, the snake slithers out. It eats the mice. It eats the rats, the lizards. Kills them dead. At times, when the snake has been on the job, it is quiet at night. In the jungle house. Thank heaven for that snake. 3:13:03 PM    Poems  comments []

	Friday, July 07, 2006

the greatest poem   consider this a place marker for a great poem perhaps the greatest poem ever written only it's not – written that is – not yet the greatness is implied like sex scheduled for the weekend belief is the foundation later you write the words 8:53:58 PM    Poems  comments []

	Sunday, April 30, 2006

Drip   He sits and stares at the leaky faucet in the bathtub.   Water droplets form and release again and again. He sits and stares at the mesmerizing fluidity.   Each droplet is like a shiny lure to a brook trout - but he does not bite. He is confident that he can fix this problem.   Yet something in his DNA tells him not to try. He does not know yet about the lack of a shutoff valve for the tub.   To fix this leak he will need to flip the water main for the whole house. He does not know yet that he will need a special tool to pull the faulty valve.   That's the first trip to the hardware store. He does not know yet there are at least 100 replacement valves to choose from.   Each one looking like another – that’s the second trip to the hardware store. He does not know yet that the store will not have the piece he is looking for.   The good news, according to the clerk, is he can get one within a week. He does not know yet that he will need to go home and reinstall the old valve.   So that he can have water for his house while he waits. He does not know yet that the defective valve won't go back in.   The o-rings have disintegrated and will fall off in chunks. He does not know yet that his frustration will get the better of him.   His young son will wonder and learn from the angry words out of daddy's mouth. He does not know yet that he will have to call a plumber to fix this mess.   Emergency Sunday rates will apply. He does not know any of this, and yet somehow he knows all of it.   As he sits and watches the droplets fall. He does not bite.     He does not bite.         He does not bite. And then... 10:42:40 AM    Poems  comments []

	Friday, January 27, 2006

Literary dispatches   Last night I finally finished with Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. It took me over a year to come to the conclusion that I really don’t have to read it. Tonight I will move straight on to Tolstoy's War and Peace. 7:58:04 PM    Poems  comments []

	Tuesday, January 17, 2006

We weren’t worried   who knows why they come as they do these memories out of the blue like magic   like this morning over the newspaper the weather map   hatched lines of rain extending far to the north from Virginia to Maine then Ireland   then a country road north of Sligo where an old farmer hitchhiking steps in front of our car   twenty years ago when we were just twenty-something ourselves he gets in uninvited and thanks us   my wife and I for this non-offer of a ride he has a doctor's appointment in the next town, surely it's no bother   we think it's charming part of the Ireland experience still I crack the window - the smell   a pig farmer I had guessed in our back seat, well-spoken and polite father figure to the western world   he wanted to know everything who we were, how we lived then he paused and lowered his voice   "is it just the two of yus, then?" a reference to children no -- no children, not yet   the farmer, the father figure leaned forward, touched our shoulders "ahh, don't yus worry, they'll come!"   I fought back a laugh, we both did knowing this was a memory we'd cherish all our lives, and now...   here it is again falling out of my head sure as a soft Irish rain 9:31:01 PM    Poems  comments []

	Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Three poems inspired by plunging a clogged toilet   I Didn’t Go To College To Spend My Weekends Dealing With Shit Jobs Like This.   Why The Hell Didn’t I Get A Decent Fucking Plunger Instead Of This Piece Of Crap.   Isn’t It Just Like Him To Go On Another Of His Damn Business Trips And Leave Me Here To Deal With This Ex cre ment. 8:57:53 PM    Poems  comments []

	Thursday, December 01, 2005

Earshot   You know how it is. Late for work. In a hurry. You wait too long for your take-out personalized coffee beverage. The hand swirling of the caramel on your macchiato, well, it takes time.   I get my drink and make my exit in haste. A few steps and I'm in full stride. The place is packed. All the tables taken. The din plays tricks on my ears. I catch a snippet of a conversation as I near the door.   Two men at a round table. One large, sweaty, his arms outstretched and animated; the other slight, passive, smiling wanly, his eyes darting this way and that.   The large guy is doing the talking. Either he has just said: "Accept Jesus into your life and you will immediately benefit from his generosity." Or: "Sign up today for a rewards card and save 10% on all future purchases."   I told you noise is a problem. I glance back over my shoulder at the table, at the other guy, the passive guy. Maybe his expression will provide a clue.   But it's the same wan smile,  the same elusive eyes. They stop on mine briefly then flit away. Maybe he didn't hear right either. I wonder.   But it doesn't much matter to me. Whatever was said wasn't meant for me. Random words. In one ear and out the other. All I know for certain is that I’m very late and the cost of a cup of coffee these days is too damn high. Swirl or no swirl. 9:29:39 PM    Poems  comments []

	Saturday, October 15, 2005

3M: Proud sponsor of my memory   My memory is a jumble of sticky yellow Post-it notes. Not the big ones either. I'm not so lucky. The 1"x1" size. Ever try to write on those? Six or seven words, tops, to tie down a remembrance and carry it forward in time. So often these notes come loose. Fall out while I sleep. When I walk. I find them stuck on my pillow. The bottom of my shoe.   Crab apples. Grumpy neighbor. Clapboard. Police. Older sister. Boyfriend.  ‘Here's a quarter. Get lost.’ Salamanders. Mountain lake. Sneakers ruined. First grade. Nuns. Brides of Christ? Escape!   My fingers work the flimsy Post-it note paper, toying with the adhesive edge. My mind searches for more words. More meaning! But there is no more. Nothing. And no place to scribble it anyway. 8:58:01 AM    Poems  comments []

	Thursday, August 04, 2005

The poet’s son   Sit down and read this poem, mister. Not only will you read it, but you'll like it, too. You'll like it and you'll tell me so. You'll sit down and read this poem and you'll like it or so help me God. Because you know what? There are plenty of kids in the world who would love to have a dad who is a poet. Kids who would be grateful for their warm bed at night, thankful for their current generation X-box. Poor African children who could survive on the crumbs of food you throw away.  All of this, every bit of it, paid for by poetry. Books of poems just like this one that ordinary people think enough of to purchase at Barnes & Noble so we as a family might enjoy a nice lifestyle - the one you so coldly dismiss as lame. Now, wipe that smirk off your face, young man. Sit down and read this poem. 10:28:21 PM    Poems  comments []

	Friday, July 08, 2005

Another shameless parody of a time-honored poem   The Village Burglar   Under the spreading gooseberry bush        The village burglar lies; The burglar is a hairy man        With whiskers round his eyes.   He goes to church on Sundays;        He hears the Parson shout; He puts a penny in the plate        And takes a shilling out.                                            - Anonymous   The Village Idiot   Under the prickly white house bush        The village idiot lies; The idiot is an arrogant man        Who thinks that he is wise.   He speaks to God on Sundays;        He's sure he hears God shout: Put the commandments back in the court        And take those liberals out. 8:14:32 PM    Poems  comments []

	Friday, June 24, 2005

Moving on   No more preaching My preaching days are through I'm finished with the sermons Telling people what to do.   No more reaching It’s important to protect your back I'm bending from the knees now Sorry for the plumber's crack.   No more swearing Not everyone's a fuck Some people are nice And rarely ever suck.   No more baring My naked days are done All my parts are sagging Streaking is no longer fun.   No more whining I've lost all desire to whine Go on, ask me how I'm doing I'll lie and say just fine.   No more pining There's not much left to crave From now on it's simple things Like a Ferrari and a good close shave.   No more appeasing I'm up to here with mollycoddle What's the use of it, anyway All that phony upbeat twaddle.   No more wheezing From plants that bloom in spring I'm moving to the Arctic Permafrost is just the thing.   No more miming It's not safe to mime in the Arctic They club baby seals and mimes up there I mean, baby seals - come on - that's sick!    No more rhyming This is the very last rhyme I know when enough is enough Believe me, it's about bloody time. 5:56:27 PM    Poems  comments []

	Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Team building   It’s all about perseverance, determination, the will to survive – don’t you think, Johnson? Yeeach One needs to pace one’s self plan ahead, look to the future – isn’t that right? Uh humph Don’t question how we find ourselves floating in this frigid water, blame is useless, we’re teammates after all – are you with me, teammate Johnson? Mmnffphh Look down river at the roiling boil class four rapids lying in wait – do you see them? Arrrghh Some would call this certain death Others, true champions, would rise up to face the challenge – so, what’s it going to be, Johnson? Gasp Johnson? Blub Let the record show that Johnson went with certain death, whereas I, wearing only my thick skin of courage, and this buoyant life preserver from the capsized Outward Bound canoe chose to venture forward in the spirit of oh shit… 9:18:21 PM    Poems  comments []

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