(untitled)

                  I
remember when the toe
of my shoe busted off
while I was skateboarding
down the hill that cut
through Bluff Drive
and lead me straight home

                 II
the rain that fell the night
before carrying with it
gravel from the neighbor's
driveway three houses down

                III
count 'em--three houses
down is how far it traveled
then two feet
up my leg where it
found a new home

                IV
hours in waiting
and the saline dripped
antibiotics in my blood-
stream how Niagra Falls
empties into the river below

                V
How many fingers am I holding up?
I'm seeing birds fly in the mist
above the riverflow
but thank you Nixon
I too believe in your victory

'Caught in the Act' Sestina

‘Caught in the Act’ Sestina

To face

the shame of having been caught red-handed,

cheating on your best friend’s fiancée

or even stealing a Butterfinger,

must feel like a shit-ton of bricks

balanced on your chest—a weight

impossible to ignore.  Wait

‘til your breathing starts to flutter and your face

turns a grey-blue—the color of mortar between bricks.

Do you confess?  Own up to what you’ve had a hand

in committing? Or do your butterfingers

loosen the grip on Nancy, your best friend’s fiancée?

That you just found out your best friend had a fiancée—

that you were just waiting

to congratulate you two and make sure to butter your fingers

if the rings don’t fit.  Your face

and Nancy’s bare hand

say it all, though.  The bricks

are starting to crack—the same bricks

of the house your best friend and his fiancée

made an offer on.  The same house you were caught red-handed,

not even weighing

the consequences of brushing Nancy’s face

with your crippling, butter fingers.

But her finger

showed no sign, no brick

of gold, and her face

looked nothing like your best friend’s fiancée.

The weight

of the air the vaulted ceilings enclosed, and the way her hand

was as barren as the Mojave desert, and just as cracked—a red hand

resting over the heart of the country, with crooked fingers

to butter you up.  How you couldn’t wait

to hit the hay like a stack of bricks,

or someday become someone’s fiancé.

But now, somehow you try to save face,

to shift the weight of the bricks

onto your shoulders, and cross your fingers that your best friend’s fiancée

has a helping hand as you wear the shame across your face.

Potpourri

Hot water pumps from the facuet, rises
in the bathtub at a lively rate.
Fresh rose petals adorn the porcelain
frames the same way

the blouse and skirt, the shirt and tie
fall aimlessly about the nylon rug.

The young couple lock legs
and lips at the edge of the counter
as the mirror begins to fog at the corners--

imprints of each others' fingers are left
behind
on his chest
her back
the doorknob and faucet tip.

The robust smell of lemon and lavender
incense permeates the room
and just a touch
of soothing grapeseed oil

stirs in the whirlpool tub.
Hot water continues to rise
on the cusp of overflowing.

Magnolia Ave.

The red lights on East Magnolia test
my patience more than those people
who pay in pennies--
the people who have made a home here 

in the ghetto. The streets
trafficked only by theives, dealers,
and stray kittens

not patrol cars
neighboorhood watch signs
or working street lamps.

On every block there is someone
in borrowed clothes
and stolen shoes two sizes
too big, walking

either to a bus stop
or just head-on
with worn faces and dirty looks,
forgetting to step
over the cracks in the sidewalk

because they have never known
their mothers.

The red lights here are not meant
for traffic flow, but to take a second
and stop
and look around at what has become

of people's lives
a city's history
the streets some call home.

PTSD

spelling out victory takes more
than sending men home early

to put their noses in corners
or run through dishwashers,
TV Guide listings, or sofa therapy

it takes an amount of courage
and knowing that all of the doors
are bolted, windows curtained shut,
lights flickered out

that the thunder and lightning
and rain can play in the field out back
flooding ditches
manning new rivers
posting 'for sale' signs in the sky

that tonight,
after dinner, there will be dessert--
the cake will be cut with a butter knife
the men's bellies will be full
and their wives will be spooned to sleep
dreaming a dream they once had

Weekend Visitation

I miss the carpet of my parents' home--
the curlicued fabric that velcroes to my socks--
and the elevated ceilings that offer more comfort
than any oversized sofa or leather couch could.

It's just these hardwood floors
are not enough to cut.  Rather, they collect dog fur
and dust mites, and that's only
scratching the surface.

All I can do is what I've always done
and on and on, on and on, on and on,
on and

on I go, barefoot across furry floors
that make me feel like I'm wearing socks
in my parents' home
three hours away.

The Initials We Carved Into Tree Bark

As we lay in rusted coffins,

planted in the backyard with the honeysuckles,

our hands clasp the pearls, rosary beads, and lockets

that will remain around our necks long after flesh and muscle

ossify, hair and nails preserve.  We will remember a time

when the wrinkles of our foreheads were like tree rings

and the dimples in our cheeks--the knotholes where we kept

our treasure.  Two mounds of dirt, poised with intention

twelve feet above our heads, whisper lullabies as the stars

and moon peel away like wallpaper of a nursery. 

The pillows we rest on turn to lead.  Our chests

faint once more.  We fix our eyes to the wind

in the branches and leaves--a mobile

dangling above our cribs.