Never Let No One Man Worry Your Mind

Carl won't tell me what's wrong
Leaving me to guess why he's quiet about
Everything.
I make things up.
Something to do with work
Or the airports he lives in,
Dissatisfaction with his job,
The traveling and car rentals,
Those tiny hotel pillows.
I ask him but it turns him angry,
Incredulous.
Nothing, he says.
Maybe it's me
Something I said
Not making him feel special,
I don't know.
Does he have girlfriends in all those cities he visits?
I search his laundry for clues,
Check his phone for wayward texts or emails when he's in the shower.
I find nothing.
This leaves a growing distance between us.
He doesn't see it.
I give him extra love
And make the lasagna he likes
Because I'm going to explode.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Ice Cubes

She's gone when I get home.
No note,
But I know she's not returning
Because she told me so
And there's a large emptiness in the closet.
I pour myself a drink
Sit on the couch
Listen to the air conditioner's whine
Try to imagine what the next half hour will be like
And the next one.
I think about the bed
Its expansiveness
Afraid it will swallow me.
The quiet that strikes me,
How hollow it is,
A black hole
Sucking time and mind.
I fill my glass and am alarmed when the ice cubes slam against each other
Like we used to
This will be a long night,
Condemned,
Foretelling.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Benobeno

I Do

At the last second,
Just before I'm supposed to say, I do,
I wonder what would happen if I say, I don't,
Because that's what's in the back of my throat
Waiting to get out,
I do.
Two words, so definitive,
And if believed and upheld,
Would mean the end of everything I know,
And the beginning of promises, hopes, ideas.
I consider saying, I don't,
I really think about it,
Or about saying nothing at all,
Making up my own vows on the spot.
But a woman is staring at me,
Perplexed at my hesitation.
Behind her, friends and family are waiting.
But for what?
For me to echo words I'm not sure I can support?
To simply get on with it so they can start drinking?
The official stares at me, nodding, smiling.
His eyes are trying to reassure me, as if to say,
It's OK to be worried, to not be sure,
But say the words already, will ya?
There will be plenty of time later to
Think.
For now, hell, what is it I'm supposed to say?
What is it that's making me dizzy and to lose all feeling in my feet?
I don't,
But I do.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
The Marriage of Tristram and Isoude Les Blanches Mains by Edward Burne-Jones

Silly Little People

I wonder how you're doing
But I can't call you
Even though that makes too much sense.
Can't have that.
The rules say that's not allowed.
It wants to eat me up from the inside,
Dissolving the lining of my stomach with
Wretched bile comprised of
Guilt, anger, pride.
OK, I get that,
But it doesn't move me to dial your number today.
Maybe tomorrow.
That seems like a good time to reach out,
Give a shout out,
A unilateral act,
But probably not.
This is the way it is between people who aren't strangers,
A ridiculous, complex dance of
Intellectual stubbornness and gorgeous misunderstanding.
Past days cannot be captured.
They can be summarized,
But their wholeness and spirit have evaporated forever.
Silly little people who won't be here for long,
Allowing days to blend into
Clouds that dissipate so they can't cast shadows.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by AWa

Loveseat

They are sitting close together only because
The couch is so small
And they've sold the chairs that once flanked the coffee table.
She would sit on the floor to find space,
But that would give him too much.
He doesn't care either way.
She could be in China for all he cared.
He has the remote control and a drink,
So he's set.
They pretend to care, to communicate.
He, sitting in his boxers,
Holding his stomach in,
Hoping she'll notice and that she'll regret what she's missing.
She, thinking about the pool man who visits the neighbor,
And hoping he'll be gone for a while tomorrow
So she can be alone without leaving the house.
But now, watching TV together,
Their bodies brush lightly together,
Making sparks that go unheeded.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Love Sick Highway

A computer tries to
Write this poem,
But it is too rigid,
Standing still
Like a statue at the bottom of the ocean,
Sideways, carefully.
It craves the capacity to
Luxuriate in the randomness that
Molds us, defines us, offers us
Conviction,
But it has to be satisfied with
Instructions on how to
Find ourselves, and
Fix things before autumn arrives.
God, Earth, and the beginning of time areHiding, and not hiding,
As if we didn't know that,
As if a shade of what we want to be
Is good enough.
All it cares about it is setting us on course,
Helping us find an adequate road,
But always the shortest distance,
Forever avoiding dangers
And exquisite unpredictability.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Travis

Things That Cannot Be Adequately Explained

Why yawns are contagious
Who Carly Simon thinks is so vain
Dark matter
The popularity of the Kardashians
How an E-Meter discerns spiritual health
How Sister Bertrille could fly
Why Pluto is not a planet
Why Clinton chose Lewinsky
Whether Han Solo or Greedo shot first
Why JD Salinger stopped publishing
What existed before the Big Bang
The purpose of female orgasms
The Mona Lisa's smile
How Hugo earned the nickname Hurley
Why Twain, Tolstoy and Joyce did not win a Nobel Prize
How DiMaggio hit safely in 56 consecutive games
Why Vertigo was not nominated for Best Picture
The depth of my love for you

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

We Can Stay In and Play Games

His lover stands at the window,
Gazing at the impenetrable rain,
Dejected,
Her hand flat on the pane.
It's just rain, he says, but her only reply
Is a sigh.
He thinks he ought to join her,
Put his arm around her,
Give her comfort,
Tell her that all her
Great plans
Can wait until tomorrow
Or whenever the storm relents.
But that would take great effort
So he stays sprawled on the bed
In his underwear
With a beer,
And he enjoys the nostalgic smell the
Rain brings,
The mesquite and creosote,
And a particular summer when he was 10.
He thinks it's good that the parched lawn will drink
And the birdbath will be filled.
We can stay in and play games, he says,
But realizes too late it is the wrong thing to say.
She turns to him, then back to the rain that will
Not relent,
Not forgive.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Photo by Frank Vincentz

Woman and Guitar

My new guitar smells like an
Exquisite woman.
Perhaps she is one,
A woman,
Only a bit less lovely and
Soft where it matters.
But the fragrance,
The glue, the wood, the lacquer,
Intoxicating.
I will do almost anything for her,
To preserve the aroma as long as possible,
Keeping the rosewood beauty tucked safely
Inside its luxurious cushioned hard shell case
So it, too, absorbs and
Memorializes the factory tang.
Still, despite my drunken attachment to her,
She is certainly not a woman,
Though I will ply my lover with it and so achieve
Glory.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Photo by Poemfix

Another Damn Poem About Love

Do we really need
Another damn poem about love?
Too many sonnets to muses have been
Written and
Memorized and
Used to nurture intimacy.
I offer this prose to
My only love
To ensure she knows ours is unyielding,
And to fight off those false
Mind monsters
That slither from the deep when we're apart.
I would not know how to find you
If you had not
Found me.
So please accept this,
Another damn poem about love,
Unoriginal yet abiding.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Photo by gnlogic

Dream Shaping

I am told that dreams can be shaped by
Focused mental exercises at bedtime.
Concentrate on what you want to
Experience while sleeping,
Then it may come alive in your dreams.
Last night, head on pillow,
I focused on a
Secluded pristine white beach,
Just me and my lover
Under an umbrella,
A fresh piña colada every twenty minutes.
I pictured fine grains of sand and
The water, the sun, the smell of sunscreen.
But in the morning I had no memory of beaches,
Only a vague recollection of
Being with someone I know.
We dream several times a night,
Which means the beach may have been my
First dream,
Followed by nightmares of falling
Or being chased by a demon.
What's the use of forcing a dream
If it can't be savored?
Perhaps lucid dreaming is next,
In which I will know I am in a dream
When it's happening.
Or maybe a real trip
To a real beach
With my real lover.
But that would be too easy.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Photo by Johntex

The Couple at the Next Table

The couple at the next table is fighting.
She says, I had a life before I met you,
But he doesn't reply.
They sit quietly, barely looking at each other.
He taps his shoe on the floor.
He says, I don't think you have any idea how much I care about you.
She says, Oh yes I have an idea.
I definitely have an idea.
They fall into silence again,
Together.
She glances at me and whispers to him.
Then he says something about love,
About recognizing it, and
All the things he's done for her.
Go ahead, she says,
Please tell me everything you've ever done for me.
No answer.
I really want to know, she says.
They perceive me listening and quickly pay their bill.
They leave,
Walking past my table,
Glaring at me for stealing their secrets.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Y-Chromosome

National Geographic studied

My DNA.

They traced my ancestors back

50,000 years to the Rift Valley in
Northeast Africa.
Withdrawing from the Ice Age.
Stone tools and early art.

My Y-chromosome then migrated north

Through the Middle East

And into southern Europe.

I’m in North America and

Not feeling my roots at all.

I suppose we’re all from Africa if you

Go back far enough.

But I can barely remember what I

Ate for breakfast two days ago

Or why I let my ego get out control yesterday.

Africa thousands of years ago seems distant and

Meaningless.
I can't feel it.

But the girl who stuffed me in her closet when I was 12,

That I remember.

That I’d like to change.

I wish I had been brave enough to ask her to

Explore my Y-chromosome.

That would have resonated more

Than a dusty patch somewhere in a distant continent.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Illustration by Archaeogenetics

Dueling Memories

When I was nine
The girl with freckles and straight brown hair
From across the street
Said if I showed her mine
She would show me hers.
I wasn't sure what that meant
But I sensed it was
Naughty and exciting.
We exchanged peaks in the pool
Where splashes and ripples
Obscured everything.
This is what I think about now,
The girl, her challenge, the water
And I wonder where she is,
If she is happy,
How satisfied she is with where life has delivered her and
How often she's been in love.
Is it possible she thinks about the
Strangely shy boy in his bathing suit and,
If so, is it a memory of
Nostalgia or regret?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Sergiu Bacioiu

Bra Strap

He lifts his head and
Eyes his girlfriend
Who wants to be his wife,
But he's not there yet.
She has her back to him.
She senses his glance.
He's looking at my ass.
Not quite.
He's gazing at the swivel of her hips, true,
But a loose bra strap is what
Catches his eye.
It somehow defines her
And everything he admires and
Desires.
She figures it out,
Shrugs and straightens her blouse.
The bra strap disappears and
Along with it
His optimism.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Implosion

When love is too familiar
It can fall in on itself
And be difficult to rescue
Exult in the comfort
Take it for granted
And watch it spin away
A love so tight must be
Unwound and ignited
Razed so it can be raised
Deconstructed to form a
Lighthouse
A beacon for weary souls
Who are tired of love
And its impositions

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Ballymuner