New poetry

I'm going to kick this off with a bang and share four new poems.
Admittedly, partly because I'd like them copyrighted
(which publishing online automatically does). Dig in!


How I Quit My Favorite Job

Hank took me out on a Thursday
night to show me how poets drink,
said work was a dime a dozen.
Said he had twenty cents, he’d give it to me,
I could take the next two days off.

His burly laugh
rang against the stars all night.
They laughed back and the whole
cacophony beat inside and against
my head until it melted into the angry
pulse of my neglected alarm and my
livid hangover headache. But first,

The majestic silhouette of that golf course
clubhouse – off limits when you work
in the grass stained poverty of the grounds
crew – sun climbing slow, pink and ambitious
behind where it overlooks the sensual
rise and fall of the Earth,
slow, soft breaths of a lady’s chest.

I’ve painted that holy image
on the backs of my eye lids.

And the pond in the far back,
near the field, tucked away in that cathedral
of towering oaks, where I hid and smoked,
watched the day yawn and wake –
How I envied the leisure of the careless
geese who dwelt there.

I touched down briefly,
enough to wet my tired feet,
spread a soft ripple,
tickling the soft keys of the muted organ
of the cattails at the edge of the pond.
Took a small bite from the shore, then flew home
into the Heaven of that Michigan sunrise.

I woke up at noon
and never went back.


Skipping Communion

My car is almost
out of gas and low
on oil. It’s begging
for a drink and I
wish I could give
a few back. Rolling
past tombstone slum
apartment buildings
which line the street
like mourners for my
one car procession,
the radio sets free
the rapid eye movement
I missed the night before
“That’s me in the spotlight
losing my religion. Trying
to keep a view and I
don’t know if I can do it.”
I haven’t said anything
at all. Free of verbal commitment
but on my way to work
anyway. How can drinking
make you thirsty?
If that’s the case, all
the universe’s laws
are suspect. And neither me
nor my car, nor the choir
boys in church should
put His blood to our lips.
Or should we? To dry out,
crumble when we laugh
and turn ourselves
into dust.


Generational Poverty

Great Grandmother,
solid study Czech –
though I remember you
always frail with lonely
age – even the whiteness
of your porcelain horse
cracked and forgot
its pristine glow.

Where its free and flowing
sculpted tail was meant,
instead a silent, jagged hole,
an angry tear like the one
ripped in the center of the quilt
you made my mother,
that dream you had
as a girl – Lady Liberty
gleaming bronze and riding
a golden calf.

But she was torn too,
wasn’t she Great Grandmother?
Rotting with mold and green,
sick with a rule of science
which she could not change.

And you, beaming, clutching
your sturdy white horse,
stepping on land, first American mud,
praying not just to ride it,
but forever,
and slipping, soiling
your first American dress.


For Buzz

The hallway of the home where I grew up.
Wood floor stretched like a waking cat.

You spark a cigarette at the other end –
just a shadow, My Dead Uncle.

Tell me, did it hurt when your chest caved in?
Or more when you watched your precious Harley

skid across the asphalt,
spewing an exhaust of sparks?

Or, did you just chuckle, watch it topple
like that drunken lemur we fed Coronas last summer?