Monday, March 20, 2017


morning is best,
the earlier,
pink clouds hovering
over the continental divide;
waking up each day
is a terrible mystery.

stepping out of bed,
scooping the coffee,
the day stretches out
even as life contracts,
and my telomeres grow

Ah, St. Telomeres, from
the region of repetitive nucleotide 
sequences at each end 
of a chromosome,
what I would do with forever?
I already sleepwalk through this life,
how could I sleep while the stars
flipped off, one by one over eons,
until there was no starry
night left for van gogh?

Tired at sixty of the 
desire to own things,
to complete my set
of dishes, or salt and pepper
shakers, it's time to give away,
all that can be given,
and keep all that cannot:

this sunrise,
the sweet heat of this coffee,
my love, still sleeping
in our big bed
in the next room,
a morning breeze
her beautiful grey hair.


Friday, March 3, 2017


All the old peeling paint houses
in this neighborhood
are grinding to dust, their
Bricks falling under yellow,
billowing bulldozers, that pounce on
their prey that had the poor grace
of being for the poor.
Shoulder to shoulder, one could look
From yours into your neighbor’s windows,
just feet away but the blinds
were always drawn
after the first embarrassment.
Some houses packed so tight, 
that the old man
Who liked beer too much
had trouble stumbling through.
The tiny porches, that said hello
To passer-by, have lost
their voices.
The floral papered dining rooms
scented with the dry tears 
of graduation celebrations
and deadly mourning,
All crushed unceremoniously like
Broken clocks into the dumpsters
that line the streets like hearses. 
Then the new houses
stride in like conquistadors,
Without care, with god at their side,
Planting their flags,
Claiming territory already owned
By generations gone silent, but 
in any case, nothing
Can be heard over the rumble of
Glittering gold coins flowing
Fast through the century old gutters.


Wednesday, March 1, 2017


I enjoy
The songs we sing
As we dry the dishes,
While looking out at the
Day’s orange passing,
When the mountains grow dark
And too quiet.

Our plates and cups
and bowls of primary colors
are stacked away 
In their beechwood cabinets,
While the dishwasher sits humbled,
Broken, like so many things.
He never complained.
A monk of cleanliness,
He was a quiet one,
Except towards the end,
When his bones rattled.
He was a craftsman, and
We shall miss him.
If indeed it was a him.

And having done so well
for so long until those
ball bearings turned to grit,
I believe he will
Be reborn as an oven
Or a stove. A toaster oven
At worst. A step up
The karmic ladder
To Christmas cookies,
Thanksgiving turkeys,
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

By-passing the hell, thank god,
of the microwave,
Which can only reheat
what others have left behind,
that which began in the oven
or the sauce pan,
but which is now distained
by all but hungry souls
counting down the seconds
at the midnight hour.