It Really Was No Miracle

I open the door
Suddenly
The world is in color
Blinding
Frightening and pastel
Creepy little people bend and bow
In broad lapels
Pointed hats
Tall striped socks
Shy
Hiding behind a bubble
A pink woman
With jewels on her head and neck
The tiny humanoids dance around and
Praise me for murder


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

The Heroic Weather Conditions of the Universe, Parts 1 and 2

Starts with solitary high notes
A whistle sound
Metronome up and down
Suspense
A music box plays somewhere
Ballerina twirling around in pink
Her white slippers trailing behind her
A counterweight melody forces its way in
Blocks tap to emphasize playful tension
We are waiting for the organ, welcome
Surprised when the huge bells take over
Finally
Relieved when they fall to the wood blocks
Familiar, comfortable
Whistling that leads into the horns
And a bank of singers who make it real,
Surprising us with their humanity and
Urgency
Frightening
The second time around a banjo takes it up
While the xylophone has its moment
Harps let us know there's an angel somewhere
But they disappear when violins are plucked
Like clockwork
We feel that something important is happening.

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

The Last Time I Saw Richard

The last time I saw Richard
Isn't a Joni Mitchell song
It was when he put on his
Yellow scarf
And looked at me
As if I were death,
Like I'd done something
Horrible to him,
Which I had, in a way
But no one deserves that glare
Fierce and scornful
Like a Kabuki mask
Permanent
But the memory of his flesh is still there at night
I think of him with nostalgia
Longing
As if everything we ever had
Was theater.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 
Japanese woodblock print by Torii Kiyotada VII 

Nutrition

The child eats dirt
It tastes like home
Or an imagined home
Where there are no orphans.
Earth is organic and
Whole
Delicious
Crunchy
Fortuitous.
He carries vials of
Sweet topsoil
In his backpack
Hoping for seasons and
Gardens.

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

Second Thought

The beggar is shaking a plastic cup
The coins dancing inside, making music
The lyric says drop money in so I can eat.
I avert my eyes and continue past,
Watching my breath in the cold
Looking back to see the poor man
Sitting on blankets
Still rattling the cup.
I touch my pocket to see if I have change
A quarter or two after my coffee
But I'm already several paces away
And I don't want to backtrack.
Guilt wraps its hands around my neck
Slipping its cold fingers under my scarf
I've been judged.
I double back to where the man sits
Still asking for money, desperate, demeaned.
I stand in front of him to ensure he sees me
Dig the coins out of my pocket
Lean down
Drop them purposefully
One at a time
Inside his cup.
I feel good.
He looks up at me and nods.
He says, I saw you walk by and knew you'd be back.
I turn and move quickly away
Afraid I've been discovered
A fraud
A giver only on second thought.

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

Dispatch to Evangeline

I finally muster the courage to
Pass a note to John
Who slips it to Millie
She gives it to Evangeline.
I am attentive to her
Perfectly pressed hair
And that one freckle above her right eyebrow.
I love her
Secretly.
Miss Kenatol is teaching denominators
But I am busy composing my
Dispatch to Evangeline.
It comes out half-hearted
Because revealing the truth to her
Would be admitting it to myself.
So all I can write,
In my neat handwritten scrawl, is
If you like me I will like you back.
John doesn't open the note
But Millie takes a peak,
Wry smile.
Evangeline reads my words,
Looks up
Scans the room
Finds my eyes.
I look down, mortified, embarrassed.
What have I done?
All the blood in my body dissipates.
I bury my head in my arms.
Miss Kenatol asks what's wrong.
I say I'm trying to memorize something,
Which satisfies her.
I see Evangeline write something on my note.
She passes it back to Millie
Who opens and reads it,
Then on to John
Who holds it out to me.
I reach for the talisman,
Bringing it close but not opening it,
Afraid to reveal what's inside.
I don't want to know
Just yet.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: strngwrldfrwl from Japan

Sandy

I light a candle and
Crap in a Ziploc bag.
The building has no power
No water.
The elevator is stuck in the basement
Half filled with putrid water.
We all meet in 7B at the end the hallway
Because Ed and Jason have the large apartment on the floor.
We each bring a bottle of wine
Sit in their large room
Look out at the dark city.
Red wines mix well.
Soon we're asking Ed and Jason
Intimate questions
Like who's the catcher.
They laugh and say
They both catch.
After a while nothing matters.
We line up the empty wine bottles on the windowsill
Looking like so many dark skyscrapers

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

In My Backpack

Dell Latitude E4300
Tatiana vanilla flavored cigars
MEElectronics in-ear headphones
The Doctor's Brushpicks
Albuterol spray (two)
Office keys (2)
Loose change
Business cards
Caran d'Ache pen
Lip balm
Fake gold Pirates of the Caribbean medallion
Stolen inside-the-trunk release handle
Aleve
Walgreens acetaminophen
iPhone earphones
Blackberry earphones
Sprint wi-fi connector
Systane
Sans Nom matches
Targus computer remote
Bic lighter
Neomycin and polymyxin B sulfates and dexamethasone ophthalmic suspension
Extra earphone batteries
Audio cable splitter
TobraDex
Zylet
Thumb drive (2)
Extra earphone buds
Confidential work documents
RollingStone, October 11, 2012
Norwood, by Charles Portis
iPad 2
Moleskine notebook
Drug samples
Breakfast voucher from The National
Notes for a story on Arizona Inn stationery
Unused US Airways Above & Beyond recognition card
Hand-drawn birthday card from daughter ("I love you. You are the best dad in the world.)
Handmade bookmark from daughter
Nintendo DS with Yoshi's Island game card
Son's passport and birth certificate
Hair spray
Fluticasone propionate nasal spray
Aquafresh toothpaste (2)
Lagerfeld classic cologne
Splenda (8)
Stevia in the Raw (2)
Inside a small red pouch: acrylic tooth fairy stone kissed by my mother before she died

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

Lonely Sailor

Someone said
A writer writes because he has
No choice.
That it's like breathing,
An involuntary response to
Holding a freshly sharpened pencil
Or sitting at a keyboard,
A disease.
Writers peck at immortality
Recognition
Flirt with fame
But mostly must be focused on
The next elusive paycheck
From teaching or milking cows.
They write because it's what they do,
Hoping to corral large inspiration to convey small truths,
At best.
Writers yearn for a single gentle reader
Who will say she understands
Even if she doesn't.
Oh, poet,
Lonely sailor,
Lusting for a wind gust
Or a pod of dolphins to show the way.

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

In Servitude

A very small child came to my house last night
Holding out his bag
Begging for candy
Threatening trick or treat.
He wore black pants
White dress shirt
Skinny black tie
And a sparkling plastic Mitt Romney mask.
He looked up at me
Staring through vacant black eye holes,
Appearing just as spellbound and drugged
As the last missionaries to ring my doorbell.
The child's parents stood smugly on the sidewalk,
Arms folded, proud of their kid's costume
Their idea
Their message to the neighborhood.
No 7-year-olds ask to mock a presidential candidate on Halloween.
None clamor to pose as a Mormon.
They long to be Superman or Spider-Man or Harry Potter.
But this boy, in servitude, was forced to do his
Parents' bidding.
I smiled at the boy
Threw chocolate in his bag
And waved to his parents, pathetic and weak.

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

Lights Out

I have the only generator on the street.
When the lights went out last night
The neighborhood went black
But for my house,
Because I thought ahead,
Making the modest investment
After the last blast.
Do I have to control for other people's stupidity?
Everything happens in cycles.
Repetition is a driving force of nature.
My frozen food stays frozen.
Television brings images of local devastation.
Wife's hair blower
Blows.
My house has sadly become the local meeting place,
Everyone drawn to my illuminated lawn,
Not disguising their jealousy,
Hate in their eyes.
Marvin from the next block asks if he can charge his phone.
Now the schools are closed for a week.
My children rejoice.
I consent to hosting an all-neighborhood slumber party for the kids.
They're in the back room playing old-fashioned board games,
Which I was smart to save.
I look out my front window
Shotgun by my side,
Waiting for someone to come steal my power.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: 1997

Harpies

Sandy is soaking the country
But my dog wags his tail
To say he wants his walk,
Impatient.
We head into the night
Led by a clear full moon
That conveys harpies
In advance of Halloween,
Half woman half vulture
Clinging to shadows and rooftops
Watching me.
We approach a certain house
That spooks my pet
He whines and pulls on the leash
Trying to get away.
He doesn't like the decorations,
Mock spider web,
A creepy monster propped by the front door.
I tighten the leash and
Move closer for a picture.
I raise my phone,
The creature moves its arm
I'm certain.
A billow of spiked air blows down my neck.
I hustle to the next house,
Eye on the moon,
Movement in the bushes.

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

Pie

Somewhere in Kansas
I felt my eyes closing,
Stopped for coffee and pie.
I pulled off the access road,
Parked my rig,
Walked the few yards back to
The small cafe and its
Broken neon sign.
I sat on a stool
Ordered jet black java,
Lemon meringue,
Engaged the owner/cook in conversation,
Ed.
We talked about long hauls
And life in his small town.
It's not all it's cracked up to be, said Ed.
I guess.
A lotta folks think I have it made,
Owning my own place,
Out of the rat race, so to speak,
This place isn't so bad.
He sounded desperate to convince me.
I hadn't the heart to tell Ed the meringue was bad,
Tough and rubbery,
Egg whites over beaten.
It made me gag.
Ed asked if I was OK.
I sipped the coffee,
My eyes began to water.
I coughed
A piece of the pie landed on the counter.
It's not the pie, he said.
It's never the pie.
We're famous for our pie.

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

Rorschach Test

I stand on my hotel balcony
Smoking a cigar
Gazing across 29th Street at an open window in the next building.
A man sits at a desk
Wearing large black headphones
Staring at two wide computer screens.
He sips from a water bottle
Looks up and sees me
We lock eyes for a moment
Nods in my direction
Returns to his work.
When I think he's not looking I snap his picture with my phone
To memorialize the distant connection
He sees me and shakes his head.
He says something.
To me? To himself?
I give a friendly wave with my cigar.
He rises
Loosens his pants
Turns around and places
His naked fleshy butt against the window
Where it flattens into a Rorschach test
That isn't hard to interpret.

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

Too Much Coffee

Gordon lets something slip that makes my job seem
Untenable
Unbearable
Three cups of coffee and I
Can't think anymore
Body tipped on caffeine and adrenalin
I feel like the only person alive
Moving in slow motion past people who have
No clue.
I consider the balcony
Shut out the world with ear buds
Momma Miss America
Glorious drums and frightening reverb defining life
I fall into the flow outside and grab a building to steady myself
How can I not feel pretentious?
The singer asks what's the use of worrying
He answers: no use
Son of a bitch
Can't even use the f-word in this poem
Hurts so good
Crushing
Too much coffee
Too much

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

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

The Empire Builder

My train is an hour late.
When I finally board
I sit by a west window
And keep an eye on the Hudson,
The low clouds
Touching the trees and
The grand isolated homes on the other side.
I imagine a lonely woman inside one of the larger white houses
Sitting at a breakfast nook
Gazing out at the water and
My train speeding south.
I try to connect with her telepathically
Wanting to feel what it's like to be wealthy
And wake up in a quiet estate
Wearing slippers
Fetching the paper from the gravel path,
Working the crossword over a cup of fresh coffee
As the 280 from upstate passes
And wondering why her husband has come home late
Three nights in a row.
The train stops short of the Rhinecliff station.
Something's wrong.
I get off and walk the rest of the way
Looking for something better.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: David Hermeyer and Samuel Wantman

Sock

Louise says she can still make money
With her body,
That it's a resource that refreshes every day.
You promised, I remind her,
You said you were through with that.
I made her an honest woman
Determined to satisfy
Make her my own
Be good to her.
But her past is overwhelming,
Hanging over us,
She can't let go.
We met that way but I press,
Asking if I don't please her
If my love isn't enough.
She says I'm too much,
Demanding,
Stop working so hard at it,
Reminds me that we're not married.
I think about her all day while I'm
Draining transmissions and repairing flats,
Brooding,
Wondering if she's fallen off the fidelity wagon,
If I'm being selfish.
At night I find a stray sock under the bed.
Not mine, I'm sure.
I want to confront her with it but am afraid
It will decide things.

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

There Are No Seasons Where I Live

There are no seasons where I live
No snow or turning leaves
Months of silver depressing clouds
Blizzards.
There are no earthquakes where I live
No gaping holes that
Swallow cars
Collapsing highways.
There are no hurricanes where I live
No rising tides
Bursting levees
Floods forcing us upstairs.
There are no tornadoes where I live
No spinning skies of death
Leveling homes
Snatching farm animals.
But here, where heat was born,
We swim in tiny blue oceans
Stay indoors
Love each other.

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

Vacated Blood

One by one
As the children leave
We linger over their faces on the wall
And empty rooms that paint pictures
Of their energy and noise
Parties and locked doors
Struggles and freedom.
The youngest turns 16
And moves downstairs
Not away from us
But for us
A gift
A merciful halfway step
So it becomes familiar
Easing into emptiness.
I call my dead
Understanding where his heart hurts
Fill him up with a strong dose of me
Hoping the world will return the favor
That one day
My vacated blood
Will dial me with news of the day, too.

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