Imperfect Cinquain Morning

Five is
not the number
we were both counting on
to guide the sun’s reflection through
the blinds.

Safe prime,
untouchable,
a pent-up starfish waves
the most destructive hurricane
away.

All wounds
trip the senses
except the side one,
which tends to put us violently
to sleep.

Water,
earth, air, fire.
Don’t forget the ether,
or wood, earth, water, fire, then
metal.

I will
remember Speed
Racer’s Mach Five going,
going, going forever, gone
again.

Risk It Triptych

A knife
on the counter
tempts me to reach for it,
to stab my own fear in the gut
by choice.

Let’s pitch
tents with toothpicks
and Silly Putty and
string from old kites we never got
to use.

What if
I were to spend
a year on the island
to speak to ghosts of beach rose hips
alone.

How ‘bout a Coin

How I
wanted to be
a coin diver calling
to steamship ferry passengers
above.

Oak Bluffs
on a hot day
in July, the sixties
were winding down, filled with rusted
edges.

But my
mother said no.
I learned to hold my breath
for ages underwater in
protest.

My ears
couldn’t handle
the pressure. Jellyfish
stings. Heads nor tails, not my story
to tell.

Reflections of an Unprepared Hippie Poet (or, Dancing Barefoot Along the Legal Lethal Divide)

Forget
no shoes, no shirt,
no service. Remember
no trees, no lungs, no pen, no mask,
no life.

American Pyro: F’n Fireworks

Hiss. Bang. Flash. Toxic
residue especially from the color
green. Don’t blame the dogs
for running away.

Another night
of thunder and lightning
without rain.
Where’s my thundershirt?

Cherry bombs in the alley.
M-80s down the subway stairs.
What are we celebrating?
Freedom. Boredom. Gunpowder. Really?

The sky needs no adornment.
The earth, no more wounds.