Night Poems

Letter in a Mirror

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“Tainted Love” won’t hit you
the way it did in 1982 when you came late
to Studio 54. Always arriving early, 

you miss being
the impact.  Pregnant
new wave singers, punk 

ones already overdosed, your phobia
keeps you clean. You are one
of the dirt eaters.  We can tell 

by the lines on your finger
nails, by the look you give
trees. Your envy is not pretty— 

it’s what you wear
when nothing else seems to fit. The seam
is endless 

around your assumptions.
Your shoe size is not
what you or I think. You would be taller 

if you could give up
the memory of those songs—
the ones that didn’t deliver 

the truth, it turns out. And it is
this—Noguchi is dead. Your soul mate
isn’t yet born. Take a deep breath, 

my dear woman, move on.

Living Tower

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Even if it was an option, it’s not 

an option 

to date your guardian angel,
even an accidental one.  You may believe 

you’ve exhausted them all, been pushed
to the edge of the jetty—rocks everywhere 

sounding off a raucous
laugh.  But the one who guides you ashore 

cannot be the one to take you 

home 

to love you in a half lit, half
darkened solar. This is more 

than semantics.  This is
a rule bronzed and embedded 

in each Noguchi sculpture
you hope to see and know you’ll want 

to touch.

Cell Phone Cyclops

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A camera placed
in my hand for the first time
in as long as a road
of memory can wind
into back woods, I’m an uncertain 

chronicler. Not sure how
to make a record
this way, not sure I want to 

tell a story. I might prefer to steal
an image or two and retreat
to the dirt on that trail.

Ten Seconds

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At their best, these
poems are little love affairs—fireflies
bursting on a night 

scene to guide one solo walker
to another for a single
turn around the park 

and pause before
the old iron footbridge
to witness 

whatever the marsh north
and pond south
might offer up.

Destination Blues

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She can’t talk
to nature the way nature
talks to her
through intersection 

traffic lights—take this
turn, now that. Come home 

this route tonight. She can’t
guess how a howling
wind would translate
on a mountainside 

but predicts her accent
would never do.

Zapper

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When streaks of white
light death (instead
of frenzied fireflies)
interrupt the night 

sky, who can say
which way the sun might
set in a hundred years.
Who can say this 

is it, or it isn’t 

the last chance
to change my mind
about those benefits offered
when only darkness remains.

Inside His 50th Chorus

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“The guitar’s a-started
Playing by itself.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 50th Chorus to “San Francisco Blues” (Book of Blues) 

Hot wind and time
to be 

alone converge
at an intersection 

I won’t remember

tomorrow morning
when light breaks open 

that hill behind me.
The spillage will be automatic, 

will startle longing
in shades of red. 

Don’t ask 

how I know. These are the split
movements beyond control.

Guardian Angel with a Blues Harp

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—not a lute. Storms
have passed. Acoustic mass
wraps black
and tangles up inside 

the brick wall. Some of it will seep
through. More will remain the ivy
of darkness outside 

my window. Alone, I risk 

the walk outside at night
toward a museum, fuzzed-out
guitar and drums loop
around a gallery 

on an upper floor. Alone, I imagine 

I will peer over
a cliff, will listen
for human voices amidst the ocean 

roar in Big Sur,
will hope to see an otter,
will hope to hear some small sign
that you’re out there watching 

over me without knowing
that’s what you do. I keep
my distance—solitude
is my drug 

of choice. There’s nothing left to fear.

Just So You Know

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Always hated fire
works, always
will. I’ll be staying 

away. One bad jump
off a life
guard stand into State 

Beach sand, a twisted
ankle no amount
of eye candy color 

over the ocean
could soothe. Never
mind the explosions. Black 

Market or Black Cat brand,
either way a 500-gram cake
of flame tails awaits 

on the other side. I’ll not be crossing 

the river or state line. I’ll be back
on that beach—super pyro, 

invincible, never mind
the explosions.
Just never mind.

Another Scramble

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Meet me at the bus stop
where we won’t wait
to see another quarter
moon translate the sky 

into a language for pedestrians
without a bridge. We won’t wait

for anything—we’ll be walking across 

12 lanes of traffic,
all lights with us, headed for
a destination we shouldn’t have
been so eager to meet.