Suburban Haiku

Boys with .22s
shoot bottles out in the woods,
heard but never seen.

Skinny high school girls
vomit on manicured lawns
while parents travel.

Silent lanky deer
graze from sprouting flower beds.
Let them eat it all.

Angry teenagers
spray paint "fuck" on traffic signs
for no real reason.

Slow, stubbly fathers
skin their large, greasy knuckles
fixing bikes and cars.

The ice melts inside
the big, blue cooler of beer
sitting by the pool.

In My Dreams, I Burn For You

I'm just coming out of the grocery store
when I see him forcing you and the dog into a van.
He's tall and wiry with a balding head and scraggly beard
which, luckily, happens to be soaked in gasoline.
I use one hand to drag him out of the van by his filthy, thinning hair,
and the other to spark my cheap plastic lighter
which I use to ignite his beard.
He tries to beat the fire out but can't,
and I am determined to hold on to his hair until he stops flailing.
You wake me. My heart is pounding.
I pull you closer, mutter a brief synopsis
and then try to go back to sleep,
and hopefully back into the dream as well
because I'd like to crack open the bastard's skull for good measure,
and then set fire to the rest of his body
so we can roast marshmallows
and make s'mores right there in the parking lot
and maybe save a few choice charred chunks for the dog.

The Adjacent Patient

Through that wall, she sits in a lonely half-dark,
Creating herself in a pupa of blankets, tubes, and gauze.
She tells me that she wants me near, and
Through the wall, I feel her, tugging meekly at my soul.

But I can't. When I appear, she is instantly
My girl, not the perfect patient, recumbent
In her antiseptic splendor, willing
Her cells to salve her sores. My girl

Is not a patient. She idly casts her body toward me
Like a paper airplane, desirous of crash more than flight.
Her limbs, deadened by disuse, spring free
Suddenly, oblivious of the feeble stitches binding them together.

I see it in her eyes. Even as she sits there, watching me sustain her,
Wash wounds, she is quickened. Her flesh trembles against her frame,
Desperate to free her of that fractured figure. That look - so
Compelling, I fight myself as I leave, not to check if she's gotten loose.

Sometimes I hear her, down the hall, rustling sheets or taking a drink,
Organic taps that rumble in my blood.
They are my trophies, my tokens -- the sounds of my patient
In her native convalescence - safe in mild sorrow.

So I can't. I won't. Instead, I wonder, removed, if the next visit,
The one I have to make, will bring forth screams unimaginable,
Wails of terror, progress dissolving to scarlet-stung stains,
Or will it bring riotous energy, terrible joy, and scare me away again?

Intimidation

I sit with one hand curled
around a mug of sugar-free
fat-free
super-powered
chemically-sustained
instant coffee
enhancing the very life
it sucks slowly away.

From the stereo in the next room
Rufus Wainwright croons out
Leonard Cohen
the King of Darkness.
His words curl around me
a slow, sweet, unforgiving steam.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Who am I to write?

Untitled Musing #4

Four line poem, beginning now -
If I could, I would tell you how.
But if you knew, you might know who
Wrote this brief verse - would it be you?

Meditation

A friend invited me to a guided meditation class. The instructor told us to visualize someone suffering, then visualize ourselves alleviating that suffering. I saw a group of men leading dogs to a fighting ring. Then Jesus, Gandhi, Pamela Anderson and I took them by surprise. Jesus created a diversion while Gandhi whipped out his nunchuks and nailed each man in both kneecaps. Then Pamela called the dogs. They all came to her and started to growl at each other for a second but they were instantly calmed when she blew them all kisses. She lead the dogs outside to a Hummer that ran on recycled vegetable oil and then Jesus, Gandhi and I took out filet knives and cut out the entrails of the men who ran the fighting ring. They were still barely conscious so Gandhi covered them with gasoline and I threw down a match as we all ran out to the car where we shared a big tofu stir fry with Pamela and the dogs, and the dogs told us about their plans to channel their competitiveness into poker and donate all of their winnings to charity. This was probably not what the instructor had in mind, but I sure enjoyed it.

South Carolina

We were in fourth grade.
Another fall day in the suburbs,
shooting BB guns in the back yard.
Michael's dad, a short, slightly balding Vietnam vet,
stood by watching us.
He was still in his bathrobe, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee.
After we shot our fill of soda bottles,
we blew up some GI Joes with firecrackers.
The good ones severed the rubber cords inside the little soldiers,
releasing all the limbs and and the pelvis from the green plastic torsos.
After a while we ran low,
and started talking about where to get more fireworks,
as they were still illegal in Georgia.
Alabama was one option.
Michael's dad suggested South Carolina.
"Really? They're legal in South Carolina?"
"Yeah," he said, with a little squint and a little smile,
taking another sip of coffee.
"Everything's legal in South Carolina."
We faked a knowing chuckle,
having no idea what he was talking about.
I'm actually still not sure what he meant.

In the Middle and Outside

A small black boy on the subway,
his knees squeezed tight
between mom's big bag and
Aunt Sheri's new boots,
wants out.

iPod vines sprout from mom's bag
stray over his chest,
dance on his arm but
don't stay, never stay long,
thin arms reaching ever beyond.

Mom is jamming,
Aunt Sheri's stomping,
and the boy is rolling
his eyes, can't wait
for the stop, for it all
to stop, for his song
to play, outside.

Sixth Grade Dance (revised)

It's the same now as then
the way we're all standing against the wall,
amateurs, unsure of what to do with our hands
or where to look;
big hungry babies,
naked in our awkwardness,
scanning for eye contact,
hoping we'll find a brief embrace
here in the dark labrynth of the dingy arcade,
the muffled moans tickling our ears,
the smell of bleach poking at our nostrils,
and the blue light flickering from underneath the doors.

Saturday Morning Music

No need for a stereo here,
not with the crows in the distance
the songbirds in the near bushes
that dog a few doors down
the hum of the refrigerator
the taps of buttons and zippers in the dryer
and all of the other vague mechanical articulations of the house.
There's plenty of music here
to sit and listen to for hours.

The Hudson Hotel

Let's live in the Hudson Hotel
where everything is simple, neat and compact.
Stylish efficiency will be our new religion
as we pad down the narrow hallways
with the serenity of monks.
I'll wear the same black suit everyday
and you'll wear the same black dress.
We'll hang them up at night
and sit on the low bed in our white robes
and eat sushi
while we quietly scan The Times
and pretend like we're Japanese businessmen.
We'll watch one hour of television on the thirteen inch set,
and then have room service bring up two martinis.
After drinks we'll make love for ninety minutes
before we get our eight hours of perfect sleep
under the warm covers in the cold room.

Zarathustra of the Pen

Last night
I wrote myself a hero.
My pen
dropped forty pounds from my body,
re-grew the hair on my head.

I wrote myself
a stunning Irish girlfriend
and fat bank account;
artistic friends
and a mercenary’s history.

My sloppy penmanship
did little to diminish my power
as Imam of Chinatown,
Grand-Poobah of the Masons,
Patriarch of Violent Fiction, and
Samurai of Ozone Park.

So much better than the poor soul
who fell asleep on the A-Train,
a hopeful dreamer there
to take my place-
alone, out of money,
a dead ringer for the poet.

Plagues and Praise: A Dialogue in Haiku

External locusts
of approval: you are what
the swarm says you are.

Beating wings lift me
above my expectations
flutter - glorious!

Endless droning buzz
afflicts my mind in vicious
winged infestation.

Social butterfly
that winged dangerous beauty
gain praise, lose your soul.

Grasshopper, red ant,
Black ant too -- all bow down to
The sole of my shoe.

Why I Don't Need an Alarm Clock

A foot moves beneath
covers, the Feline attacks
Claw! Bite! Good Morning!!

Facepaint and Weapons Don't Mix

Slashing innocence,
Clowns with knives do more damage
than they realize.

Best of Intentions

You wouldn't want to visit our house today,
Though you'd be welcome.

All the furniture has converged in the center of our bedroom
and hidden itself under plastic sheeting --
protecting itself from the "Storytime" shade of blue on the wall
and just a little on the carpet.
We had enough paint, but we ran out of weekend,
so for a few nights we squeeze together into the smaller guest bed
while the cat sulks because there's no room for her.

Also in the guest room are boxes recently in storage,
bags of baby clothes resting on their journey from one friend to another,
two ironing boards - one from each of our houses, neither ready to separate
stacks of gifts from generous friends and well-wishers
(awaiting thank-you notes before they can be put into commission)
invitations, ribbons, baskets and tulle for the upcoming wedding
hundreds of dusty books - too numerous to read, too precious to throw away
camping supplies, seldom-used sporting goods
box after box of photos and mementos...

all piled up, waiting
creating an obstacle course between the crowded bed
and the door to the rest of the world
it's a hazard, really.
Toes, shins, and balance -- beware!

Perhaps it could've been less dangerous
if we had not gone to the fireworks, the cookouts, the parties
If we had locked ourselves in until each coat was dry
each item in place, every room habitable and clean.
Yes, that would've been lovely --
convenience, accomplishment, cleanliness, godliness.
You might like to visit THAT house.

Still, I prefer the laughter of friends and a layer of dust.
Look for me wallowing in the chaos of happiness.

Garden Politics

Have you ever starved a hydrangea?
I have. The Government made me do it.
For four days, I have borne witness

As leaves first drooped in listless agony,
Then curled, like a burned child recoils into a tight ball
Of muscle, skin, and pain.

Royal-blue clouds descend
To crispy spheres of fibrous dust,
Beauty meeting truth, truth defeating beauty.

Neighbors on walks with dogs have glanced toward the victim
And at me. I slip between their ears to hear them acknowledge, judge,
Then remember to water their lawn when they get home.

But steps away, cool coiled compassion is stayed
By the rule of law - glibly imposed, weakly obeyed, silently abided.
And the flower falls farther from heaven, closer to earth.

Rattlesnake Run

In summertime, we used to scamper
Beneath the drooping wisteria
Over great boulders and a mossy meadow
Down steep slopes, using roots for ladder-rungs,
Through a canopy of fragrant cedars
to Rattlesnake Run.

We never saw a rattlesnake - maybe
A moccasin or two - but the name was old,
Older than any of us pink-cheeked explorers
Walking paths worn by so many and yet so few.
Rattlesnake was ours - Masons' - mine - a secret
Held by the owners of the Knob,
The high bare hill
Topped by a solitary willow
Keeping watch over the Run, over the house, over the fields,
Over me.

Rattlesnake ran five miles through Mason land,
Twisting a dozen times around Pleasant Ridge,
Running wide, slow, smooth, then
pitching swiftly down, falling twice
Into pools so expertly carved deep into slick rock
we knew that some Mason ancient had scooped them out
For six-year-olds to slip into.

In highsky and dry August afternoons,
When the cattle would wander low into the valley,
The Run would lay bare centuries
Of slate, granite, gneiss,
Yesterday's pebbles sitting in frozen peace atop smooth slabs,
With feeble fingers of water sliding around the sides,
A straightfaced comment on the eternity of Running,
and the damning consequence of not Running.

On those days, we would run
Across the rocks, the same way you might run
Across a parking lot or a cul-de-sac.
Sara would chalk out hopscotch squares,
Or David would bring his blue marbles.
When a flood would throw downed trees against a turn in the bank
We would fashion a fort, call it Sumter or McHenry (or Mason),
Fly David's shirt from a long branch and assault it for capture
'Til we heard Mom call down from the willow
Or saw the shadows fall up past the cedars.

Climbing the winding way
From Rattlesnake to the Knob,
Our soft, heavy breaths mingled
Among the last calls of the mockingbirds
And the first of the whippoorwills.

First Beer

Someone's parents were gone
so some older kids up the street were having a party.
We tried, probably unconvincingly, to act casual
when our host uttered the holy incantation:
“Hey y’all, there’s still some beer over there in that cooler.”
The labels, soggy from the melting ice,
were sliding off the slick, brown glass
as we twisted off the caps
and delicate wisps of white vapor uncurled
into the hot August night
and lingered, just for a split second,
like tiny booze genies,
ambassadors from the adult world
welcoming us into the fold.

His Passing

It was quiet.
The family was there
at the hospital.
He was calm.
He just sighed and took one last look around the room,
the way you might at a restaurant
when you’re paying the bill
and at the same time wondering if what you ordered
was what you really wanted.

The Snore

The deep, slow snore
creeks and sputters
out of those flaring, glistening black nostrils
carrying with it
the weary longing
and sweet, oaky satisfaction
that has been fermenting in the chests of dogs
for thousands
of years,
unchanged since the first days of their friendship with man
when night would fall
and leave no trace of light in the valley
save the last embers of a few cooking fires
and the eyes that would spring open
at the snap of the smallest twig.

Betty

None of us realized
that no one had seen her,
it’s just not something you think about
when you're living in a ten-story anthill in New York.
A lot of paths crossed there
but there was no pattern to interrupt.
And even if there had been one,
most of us would have missed it.

The first day,
it must have been Aaron cooking something weird again,
as wildly experimental vegetarians are wont to do.
The second day,
the dogs were beginning to claw at the baseboards,
and it must have been someone’s garbage
or rats
or both.
But the third day,
it had taken on a life of its own;
a complex bouquet of fermented shit,
old flowers, and sour milk.
The dogs started whining early that Saturday morning,
as the building’s newest tenant demanded to be acknowledged
and we realized that no one had seen Betty since Wednesday.

Mr. Crespo, the Super, optimistically offered the formality of knocking
before walking in to find her
in her armchair, TV blaring,
an unfinished beer still on her snack tray.
Her skin was mottled and green-black.
and her arms were raised up high,
like a referee signalling a touchdown.

Birthday

Running through a Stepford subdivision
I pass a birthday party for some kid, looks like two or three years old.
Just a few family members out in the yard
with sun and balloons and cake
and party cups with Pixar characters.
The kid's on a shiny red plastic tricycle
but it's one of those special ones with a long handle on the back
so grown ups can keep him safe.
He goes down a mole hill, peddling furiously
while dad secretly steers.
I pass by again twenty minutes later
and the party's over.
The tricycle is still in the yard
but everyone's inside
except mom and dad.
They're in the driveway.
She stares daggers at him
from those tired former-prom-queen eyes
and all I hear him say, exhaustedly, is
"Fine"
as he tosses the cigarette butt from his plump, hairy fingers,
gets into his shiny red Corvette
and roars out of the driveway.

Paving North Georgia

Driving up 575 north to Ellijay
Christmas morning
and they emerged in the rearview,
a neon green armada.
They kept tight ranks,
with three in the left lane
and three in the right,
hauling who knows how many tons
of liquid civilization.

After I turned off the highway
just past the first Burger King after the Sam's Club,
across from the Waffle House but before the Hardee's,
I watched them roll on,
like giant robotic mollusks from some midnight sci-fi flick,
off to pour more driveways and parking lots.

What good's a mountain view
if you haven't got anyplace to shop?

The Man Who Had Nothing To Say

A grizzled old man once said,
"There is nothing here,"
and everything listened.
And once he had its attention,
he explained nothing,
as if it were something,
in fact, as if it were everything
and more.

The man said
that all that is
is man
and man creates all
that is,
including that which created man
which man has made
nothing,
just like itself.

Man likes to make things,
said the man,
even though these things
are nothing at all,
but simply things
that the nothing
(man)
wants to make.

So the man made things,
telling other men
to tell other men
to do everything,
since all was nothing,
said the man,
and men needed something to do.

When questioned,
the man said
the questions
(like everything)
were nothing,
and he was everything,
since he was right.

And after the man said everything
something came
out of the nothing,
something that was always there,
but hid in the nothing
watching everything,
including
the man, who had said
the something
was no longer anything.

And the something
made the man
into nothing.

And everything
except the man
was still there.

And the man had nothing to say.

The Guilty White Hush

You hear it in a lot of places
but it's usually in an office.
Some white person is talking about something
just going along talking and talking
and then it comes up in some way or another
and their voice drops to a whisper
just when they say

black

or sometimes even to say

African-American

kind of like we did when we were kids
if we wanted to get away with swearing
while the teacher was in the room.

Downtown Birmingham at Midnight

Sodium lights cast pale peach
over the rain-glazed granite, brick and sandstone
as a few overlooked flourescents still hum behind greasy factory windows.

The coarse concrete of the bridges
is chipped away here and there
exposing the rust
that bleeds from the iron rebar.

By this hour nearly everything’s closed –
the courthouse, law offices, banks,
the jewelry stores with heavy cases and medicinal smelling proprietors,
the body shops, the formal wear outlet and the cosmetology school.

The shop signs with blocky business names and brushstroke slogans
are still such sources of pride
for the shopkeepers' ghosts, leaning in the doorways of places that used to be.
But no one sees them.
The day shift beat a hasty retreat at 5:00,
the lawyers to their Pottery Barned homes in Mountain Brook and Vestavia,
the clerks to their cheap apartments in Southside and Tarrant.

The only ones left
are a few homeless, a few roving cops,
and, swaggering out of the karaoke bar,
a group of restless young men,
each one with his hand on his crotch and a chip on his shoulder,
eyes and jaws set hard.

Trains
and bass from the trunks of lowered Mustangs
rumble in the distance
as red warning lights
blink from the smokestacks of the old steel mills,
the too late protest of a drunken party host
begging the guests to stay.

Driving Through Bumblefuck at 3 AM

Seventeen degrees.
Crystal clear above and pitch black ahead.
No signs, no billboards, no nothing.
Just high-beam headlights blasting like shotguns
over the never-ending snake of asphalt
as thick heat rolls through the black plastic vents,
a fevered preacher rails through the radio
and the green ticks of the gauges glow on chapped knuckles.

A Hunter's Haiku

She's magnificent
but she's more magnificent
dead and on my wall.

Meditation on a Potted Plant

It was once the pride of my bower:
A bastion of growth, an emblem of success.
But today, I stare wanly and know full well -
It's just another potted plant.

The leaves are still green, but
They show their age in brown crackle,
Lining the edge of their variegated blades -
Not death, but a notion of it.

Weekly, the verdant resident mumbles its outrage,
Sags in meek folds towards the blotter,
Demanding more, expecting better;
I mostly comply, if only out of guilt.

What was once rising
Has settled;
What had been soaring
Now skids.

It's becoming a nuisance, really -
The tendrils stretching sardonically
Here over a neglected file, there over the edge
Of the desk, seeking oblivion.

And no, pruning won't save it;
The center can never be reclaimed; only
Dangling legs outgrowing, paler leaves out of place,
Reminders of what was, and what was not.