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

An Idea for a Song

I thought of an idea for a song
That put me back in a
Small house
Across from the infinite desert.
I'm always in that house and
Its narrow hallways,
Tiled counters,
Always on that sacred ride
In its open carport by
The saturated, scorpion filled canals against
The new school down the street.
That's the song I wanted to compose,
But it kept bleeding into the
Mounds of pool dirt and that
Nameless girl who told me
Something I didn't want to know.
The house resists a melody,
Pushes me away,
As if to say I should look elsewhere.
And on that cold Thanksgiving morning,
Pedaling through the empty neighborhood,
Carrying something,
And getting one of those shivery
Moment feelings
On the back of your neck
And the awareness that it will be important
One day.
So I let the tune go,
Just as I am letting all those aspirations fall away.
A part of me is still on that street
But I just can't get it
And so I release the song and its premise.

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

Doorway

When you walk through a doorway you forget where you were going and why.
Did I need paperclips or a stamp?
On the way to check the mail or get a drink?
But the doorway gives your mind permission to
Let go of where it was,
Moving on,
Done with that,
Free up some space.
That leaves you standing there,
Feeling silly,
Holding the bag,
Wondering if it's a precursor to senility.
You tell yourself it was important,
Or unimportant,
But you close your eyes,
Helping your brain track breadcrumbs,
Relaxing into it,
Trying to feel it,
But it's gone.
Lost it,
Almost nostalgic for it already.
There are more doorways and arches ahead,
And they loom like sirens,
Taunting and calling you.

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

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

Vertigo

The woman cutting my hair is about to be old.
She tells me that her son got out of bed and
Tumbled through the closet door.
He was dizzy, I'm telling you, she says,
Diagnosed with vertigo.
Vertigo, I'm telling you.
He had to take the dog outside,
Which is why he sat up so fast,
And then he just fell into the closet door and
Smashed it in half.
He was also on the way to the bathroom, but
I didn't tell that to the doctor because
That's not my place.
But vertigo?
That's what he has and I wish people understood it.
Is this too short?
Just let me know.
But my son, oh I do everything for him, I'm telling you.
Well, everything except helping him to the toilet,
If you know what I mean.
Oh, don't mind the blood.
I cut myself all the time.
You're looking white all of the sudden.
Do you need some water?

 © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Art by Edo 555

The Scary Giant

Is there anyone out there?
Listening?
Thinking?
Participating?
Contributing in any way?
Other than the mournful giant who
Trembles through the woods,
Looking for fresh meat,
A human's head to snap off for a snack.
Politicians say
Blah, blah, blah,
And we pretend it matters.
It's hard enough decoding the difference between
Regular and organic peanut butter, and pondering
If we all lost our jobs today
Would the electric company shut everyone off.
So I pursue the mysterious giant,
Trudging through the wild,
The indulgent ferns and impossible forests,
Wondering if he has a green card.
Hello?

 © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Art by Francisco de Goya

Shoes

I find a pair of shoes I like and ask to try them on.
The clerk says she doesn't carry half sizes
So I choose the next one up,
Which turns out to be too big.
I request the next size down, but
She frowns at me
While balancing six boxes that no one wanted.
I say, I'm sure they will fit.
She sighs world weariness and says OK.
After a long time she emerges from the back with my shoes.
She hands me the box with an expression that begs for acceptance,
Silently imploring me to buy them without trying them on
So she doesn't have to pack them up and lug them away.
The shoes are much too snug but I don't have the
Heart not to buy them.
Maybe I can squeeze into them a few times and so get use out of them.
I'll take them, I say, but she seems to know they don't fit.
She says, You don't have to.
I say, They fit really well and they're perfect and
I wouldn't have found them without your help.
I can tell she sees right through me.
Please don't buy them on my account, she says,
I really couldn't handle that today.
I try to convince her but she pulls the shoes away from me and puts them on a tall pile to be returned to inventory later.
She says, I don't always act this way.
I don't say anything else.
Neither does she.
I walk away but immediately try to think of an excuse to go back that won't make her feel pitied.
I want to save her from having to kneel in front of people,
Smell their socks,
Spend hours standing on ladders, searching for shoes.
Is there a way to engage her without making her feel worse?
I wander aimlessly around the store for a few minutes but soon return to the shoe department.
She's vanished, along with my dreams of deliverance.

 © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by How can I recycle this?

Low Carb Diet

Everything looks good when I'm on a
Low carbohydrate diet,
Even foods I don't eat like
Bacon, pepperoni and
Stuffed cabbage.
Man was not meant to live on smoked trout alone, or
Cheddar cheese,
Pickles,
Marinated asparagus,
Egg whites,
Tuna,
Diet soda, and the resulting
Constipation.
Who says we should all have
Washboard abs and
Crest 3D Whitestrips teeth?
I draw the line at using
Grecian Formula.
But maybe I will weigh a half-pound less tomorrow
And it will all be worth it,
The world will be right and
I will be the sexist person alive.
Then, slowly, inexplicably,
Begin the steady climb back to my
Former weight,
Feasting on pizza.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Renee Comet, National Cancer Institute

Fantasy Football

Fantasy football,
No fantasy.
Obsessive obsession,
Pride, respect and office worthiness.
Trophy on desk,
Conspicuous,
Returning champion,
Everyone gunning for
Last year's winner.
No flying under the radar this time,
No one agreeing to trades,
Wanton unsportsmanlike conduct,
Quasi cheating,
Backroom deals.
Silly and hideous conspiracies every week.
Sunday enjoyment vanishes,
Replaced with anxious math.
Forget about team performance,
Revel only in individual highlights.
Restful byes,
Ruined lineups,
Decimating injuries,
Scorn of other team owners in hopes of
Tantalizing, wondrous, fleeting victory.
Spouse patronizing and
Condescending.

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

Pink Slip

The last time I saw him
He was wearing one of his clown ties
And dozing at his computer,
Suffering from offensive comments
That suggested he was either
Too fat or
Too different or
Questions about whether he'd ever had a girlfriend, and
Forced to listen to Robert Preston singing Chicken Fat. 
He suffered these barbs with courage, a smile,
Self-deprecation,
And then would go home to his puppets and his secret room
Overflowing with toys that had never been opened.
When his usefulness was over we issued him a pink slip,
Which he accepted with worry, anger,
Acceptance.
But on Monday he didn't come to work.
Instead, he escaped to his shower and
Absorbed a bullet.
He was a nice man, decent and harmless,
But those traits are only apparent now in retrospect and guilt.

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

Traffic Jam

The cars stop halfway up the mountain highway,
So I sit for a while, happy to relax.
It won't be long,
But five minutes turns to ten
And then suddenly it's a half hour.
Drivers step out of their trucks, restless.
Children scurry into a gully to pee.
It's 95 degrees
So I burn gas to keep the cold air on,
Comforting the dogs in back.
A brave, selfish car hugs the shoulder,
Bypassing the long backup which is now simply a
Parking lot.
Tempers flare.
A man shakes his fist at a motorcycle squeezing up the middle.
I chew a stick of gum and begin to lose my cool, as well.
Damn.
The dogs are getting agitated.
They sit up and whine.
Then the endless line of cars begins to crawl forward
Where the road disappears into the canyon.
I feel better once we start moving until,
Miles ahead,
We pass an ambulance and a car burned down to its tires,
And I chide myself for my conceit and
Indifference.

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

Orange

Poems that rhyme can't use the word
Orange
Because there's no perfect match
Other than the never used sporange,
Which is an unfair derivative of
Sporangium
That only botanists comprehend.
The half-rhyme lozenge is about as close as you can get
To being understood,
Which leaves orange
Among the loneliest of words,
Sad and virtually friendless,
The Nixon of Oxford,
Destined forever to live life in solitary,
Fallow and unemployed.
Yet inside, with silent pride and secret knowledge,
Bursting with delicious desire.

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

Lebanon, Kansas

The geographic center of the
Lower 48
Is a mile or so north of Lebanon, Kansas, in Smith County,
A quiet piece of private land that was once a
Hog farm.
The owner won't let you near it.
He holds it all to himself
Like Gollum's precious.
A short distance away,
Where US Highway 281 and K-191 meet,
A stone marker and flagpole
Erected by the Lebanon Hub Club
Stand as a substitute for the nation's true continental center,
And nearby a small white fragile chapel
Waits for patriotic lovers.
Lebanon is home to 217 people
Who look out for each other,
Watch for freight on the Kyle Railroad,
Hunt ducks and deer,
Get dolled up at Betty's Beauty Bar,
Stock up on ammo at Higby Bros. Gun Shop, and
Call on Gary Thompson for insurance and real estate.
These deeply religious folks worship at the
Christian Church, the Methodist Church, or
Within the ivory sidings of the Oak Creek Church.
Each year the Community Thanksgiving Dinner
Attracts half the town to the American Legion Hall on Main Street.
But locals don't much visit the geographic marker these days.
It doesn't hold great meaning for them other than a minor
Tourist attraction,
Because the rest of the country doesn't hold their values,
Care about what's really important,
Or truly understand exactly what it means to be
Centered.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by www.skyways.org/towns/Lebanon

The Man in the Backyard

I looked out my window and saw a
Strange man in the backyard.
It was dark and he was dressed in black
But I could see him well enough,
Crouching behind a tree,
Patient.
I locked my bedroom door,
Called 9-1-1, waited.
A crazy wind came up and blew through the yard.
A car drove by throwing a dusty beam of light behind the fence.
Dogs barked somewhere in the far distance.
Distracted,
I lost sight of the intruder,
Wondered if he slipped away to the bushes
Or moved close to the house where I couldn't see him.
I held my breath and listened for breaking glass,
But it never came.
Two officers arrived, inspected the house and
Found nothing.
This is the third time, they said, Go to bed.
When they left I went outside where the man had been hiding,
Wielding my flashlight, 
Hunting for footprints and my sanity.

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

Dumb Dogs

I'm told that the Border Collie is the smartest dog.
How do we know that and
How is it measured?
Because they are obedient and easy to train,
Or because other breeds are not?
I am jealous of Border Collies
Though I've never met one.
I suppose they are hard workers and protective,
Which is nice.
But I look down at my feet where my
Two Boxers
Are resting,
Waiting for me to rise so they can
Stand up,
Hoping I move toward the kitchen where
Yummy things wait.
They lead simple, uncluttered lives,
But I feel sorry for them
And I'm embarrassed,
Owning dumb dogs,
A master of imbeciles.
But they are my mentally challenged canines, and
I don't care how stupid they are,
My pooper butt face boys,
Perhaps smarter than I am.
At least we're similarly handsome,
Which must count for something.

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

When The Earth Dies

In five billion years,
When the Sun turns a red giant,
All the Earth's water will evaporate,
Its atmosphere bleeding into space.
This fate is unavoidable.
But the Earth will be uninhabitable much sooner,
In just one billion years,
Shriveling like a piece of bacon left too long in a pan.
That should be enough time for humans to
Escape the heat and
Complete lack of moisture.
We will have fled
Long before the planet fails to sustain life,
Finding young solar systems to inhabit,
Worlds to conquer,
Loves to smother,
Death to consume,
Art to rise and be forgotten.
And then, in another billion years,
As it was for our ancestors,
We will seek another place to
Spill our seed and grow a race
Destined to repeat itself.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image by B. Jacobs

The Page To Monday Turns on Sunday

The page to Monday turns on Sunday,
When the shadow from the neighbor's house covers half the yard, and
It's not too hot to mow the lawn,
The wisps of Bermuda sliced,
Grass bagged and dragged away.
It's 5 p.m. and still 90 degrees
So the dogs won't go outside except to drink from the pool and
Challenge the first step.
From here, I can see tomorrow,
Coming on bright and hopeful,
With a week of wishes before it,
A blank slate of promise and desire,
Sparkling with sweet potential that,
By midweek,
Is dashed and washed up like a
Stranded whale in Geographe Bay.
I can almost smell tomorrow morning's coffee
And am almost savoring the thought of driving to work,
At least for the moment,
When everything feels optimistic and life seems
Wholly worthwhile.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Wing-Chi Poon

Hummus Emergency

Two fresh rounds of pita on a plate
Joined by a small scoop of tanned hummus.
Not enough.
Another portion of mashed chickpeas seems right,
Balanced.
But when one pita has been consumed
The hummus is diminished much more than half,
Not sufficient to last
Without change.
Stingy hummus,
Less per bite,
Until the last pita sliver
Pushes into what remains,
Absorbing the final smear of hummus,
Like mopping up blood from a highway.

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

Bob Dylan's Truth

Dylan says we shouldn't care about the truth,
But rather what the truth should have been,
Could have been.
That's its own kind of truth, he says.
This freedom releases shackles,
Condones fabrication, fantasy and lies,
Proposes that fiction is stronger than reality.
Comforting.
Bob grants permission to create alternate realities,
Be better or different than who we are,
Modify our resumes,
Fudge online profiles,
Weigh less,
Be younger.
This is the difference between what we want and need,
Who we are and who we long to be,
A better lover,
Smarter,
More ethical.
And when we don't know who we are,
When we disappear into shadows and alternate narratives,
New truths, opaque and ethereal,
Pull us into delight and confusion.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 
Photo by Alberto Cabello from Vitoria Gaseteiz

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