Temp drops
a natural spritz
darkens the sidewalk. Hail
pounds down
crops. Buzz
used to be
the sound of bees—but
where are they, where
are we now?
Routes and Revivals
Nobody would mistake
a runner’s
log for poetry. No true
run could be
anything less. Or honest
obsession begin
any way other than head
first into the deep
end of risk
and nostalgia. I am
nobody waiting
to meet you
again. Then again
who am I
to be so mistaken
by fresh water
over warped notes?
Fan Fact
Window, tower, box,
circular, three-speed, high
velocity, ceiling, exhaust. Heat
waves come and
stay. Birds
bathe in dirt, the cat a puddle
of flattened fur
behind the claw
foot tub. All the characters
have been stolen—tickets
on sale next
Wednesday at noon.
Was the Anniversary of Johnny Thunders’ Birth
Yesterday. An unmarked package
delivered on an unmarked
morning. But she knows. Has been expecting
you to return
for a new verse, extended play. Gone
from gonna to did
and looping
back again. No more bye-bye. What’s it
like? Who really wants to know?
Another French Cold Press (or Bastille Day)
When she can’t remember what
she wrote
down yesterday, or
last night. When the lyrics
to an old favorite
taste funny
in her mouth. When
she turns left
instead of right to encounter
a street she hasn’t explored
in decades. Gets on a train
and gets off
in a town
she’s never heard of. And
the week feels eight
days long. And the quiet
in her head
alarms her. Then she turns
up the volume
to expose
a new silence
and words almost lost.
Cold Press or Bust
The truth
about the bumbershoot. Without
an accent. Rain
won’t fall yet. Another Cessna
Citation will land before
it does. Just one more thumbprint
and the walls
will be done.
Proud Cinquain
The truth—
diplomatic
delivery gets you
nowhere near humility’s true
timbre.
They Stare at the Spider on the Ceiling
Twenty years ago
social and media did not slow
dance together. We lived
two blocks apart and wrote
letters to each other—sometimes typed,
sometimes handwritten
on the back
of band flyers. Rode bicycles separately
to meet at civil twilight
beside a bench
on the west side of the lake. Carved
our initials into its weather-softened wood
back. Rain could not erase
the way we believed
we could entwine ourselves
into a protective web
to keep echoes of residual melancholy
at bay. That was the summer I became
precious cargo. I hear you are
a happy man now—and I still refuse
to dust corners or become graffiti.
Lacrimatory Cinquain
Weeping
becomes her salve
addiction not to cure
her gift to you and all those gone
before
He Loved a Parade
A patriotism
I did not inherit. Along Asbury
Park’s Main Street
heading toward the shore—the last one
we watched together. Tears
came to his eyes when bagpipers marched
past in their wool kilts. Their drone
pipes in near perfect harmony. Fireworks
have frightened me since dodging
M-80s in the Paris metro
on Bastille Day,
then in the New York subway
every 4th of July
for years. I could never keep step
with a group. Always got the incurable urge
to cross the street
in the midst of it all
against the flow. But now
that he’ll watch no more
parades, a single bagpipe
opening wide those first notes
to “Amazing Grace”
is a freeze
tag tap I cannot ignore.
