Fall And All

Photo by Andre Gide

“This sun is beating down too hot, too early. Can’t you see how this new spring is fooling the trees? They like it at first, unfurling their leaves in premature green, then July hits and they think it’s September. It’s so much like us. Sometimes, I swear we build things before thinking about repercussions. Because…

Everything is alive with voices, exploding early. Spring is turning into gibberish. I wait for summer to simmer things down. It’s difficult to focus on one voice. But, if you can single one out, it tells you something passionate in a way you’ve never heard before. I listen to your voice. Can you listen to mine? Because…

I wish I could touch you like the sun, with a heat hotter than you’ve ever experienced. But, no one can touch all the time. There is a quietness, a moon, the black universe. The sun is not letting us rest. Because…

We need clouds. I don’t want a whole bunch of clouds all at once, just a few in phases. Let the trees have their green for a while, before they fall into mounds. Our kisses remain wet. We build our lives with consideration.”


All Is Quiet On The Western Storefront


This storefront is a magnet

For the rambunctious

Who fly in through the front doors

Like grenades from the streets

Skidding onto the worn carpet.

Exploding in various ways

Usually as a question

“Can I charge my phone?”

I direct them to the nearest socket.

Today there were four of them

I gave them names

Trump, Hilary, Berne, and Cruz


They leave their phone unattended for hours

Blending in with the chaos

Talking of various things that make sense to some

Looking around in a daze as conversation

Continues, unabated … paying no attention to the array

Of products strewn about

Too easy for the taking

As if they are familiar with being strewn about.

Unfortunately, I am in charge of selling

Strewn abouts. The four must be watched, carefully


Then, knowing they are part of my surveillance,

The fab four move outdoors

I can see them through the large storefront windows

As if I’m watching a large screen television

Their lips move, I’m trying to read them

Their mouths have a frightened,

Worried look of importance

Desperate-like, they are in need of something


There must be some sort of business or war

Being conducted by them

That’s why the phone is left alone.

Ahh, they are multitaskers, I think

And when they come back to retrieve the phone

They ignore it…and

Ask me how much money

Can someone get for an object.

This object could be anything

That appears to have a semblance of value.

Sweat pours down their forehead

Their hands shake


These objects of business and war take shape

They ask “Interested in a gold chain?”

Or “I found this I Pad”  Or…

“This is an original poster from the sixties”

“This ring belonged to my mother.”

“Do you need a guitar pedal?” 

“How about an effects rack?”

I tell them this is a record store

And by a magic that only they possess

The objects change form

“I have the very first Beatles’ record”

“My uncle has all the Elvis records.

How much are they worth?”


I believe that the rambunctious

Have a magic

They can change solid objects

Ideas, questions and answers

Into different forms, instantly.

This is an important gift

With business or war

And as the one elected to

Take care of the phone

Unplugs it from the wall,

They are off to retrieve

Elvis and the Beatles

Seeking The Ultimate Mismatch


My clothes, bunched in a pile

Hiding inside wicker,

A fragile basket

After a cleansing wash

And a bout with tumble dry

Wanting to be rid of all dirt

Smells, and experiences

Of the last week

Or any week’s past


I’m not ready to hang them

In their place

Where plastic hangers

Await to reestablish the norm

Which is my norm

Which is our norm

Hiding in the closet

A constructed confinement



I pick them from the basket

Wrinkled, some of them

Others unaffected.

I pull at a sleeve, or a

Pant leg, the fuzz of a sock

A moment of chaos

Stretching seconds into

The loss of the final choice

Of the daily mix and match


Yet, they are the same

Once placed upon my body

Worn in the same fashion

As the week before

Contact will be made


With the same old smells


Who was I fooling?

Fashion chaos or the ordered closet

Only have finite amounts

Of time……Each…..

to adorn, decorate,

My linear body, with

Cuffs too short for winter

Waste size expanding

Until garage sale or thrift store

Replaces all my norm and chaos

With other versions of closet space

And clothes lines.

Still, I seek to deconstruct

My fashion sense

Through The Light Years

Photography by Chrissy Ennist

We point our radio telescopes

Up into the heavens

Poking our ears into

The mufflers of galaxies

Hoping to find rhythm….of

The thumping imperceptible

Voodoo chant of God or

At least a steamy pagan planet

With a crack of ice gone liquid

A mosquito caught in flight

The scraping of a single cell


Are the days gone?….When

We used to look at the stars

Arranging light to fit our myths

Pulling them down to Earth

Making them into shapes

Improvising our reality…to fit

A romantic stroll under

Millions and billions of years

Funny,,,,,The word year

Is so damn human of us

Has always made me wonder

Who is shaping who?




Sounds aren’t the only player.

We still watch

With screen and computation

At the gravitational tug

Between sun and satellite.

Rules are applied

We build theories, myths

Pulling the dance down to Earth

Hoping to find a solar system

Between creation and apocalypse

Where Zeus still throws lightning

Bolts with no worries attached

So, that we can continue

To shape the universe…and

Preserve our romantic stroll

Through the light years

Anger Management

Photo by Ken Russell. 1954
Photo by Ken Russell. 1954

There is a subtle anger

Underneath the crust

That carries a tilted scale.


Even among those who smile

Offering friendliness.

A false melodic whistle….who,

Not by the challenge of wise years,

Takes the path of simplification…to

Create a dry cause and effect

Binary reasoning, a molded anger

Standing beside the smooth

Concrete arm of punishment

As long as she has a sword in her hand.

The subtle anger

Always appears where…it

Is the most comfortable

Well-fed, housed, and entertained

Reclining on a soft couch

Sleeping in

Creating an outer crust

Buffering the creamy inner anger.

For those outside the crust

The wind always sways the scale

In unpredictable directions

Every now and then

A storm blows through



Your lover’s voice sounds like water

Pounding upon rocks

Filled to the brim with

Polemics and counterpoints

Swift, stabbing, centered

Overcoming your line of defense

Which was a fake calmness….that

Has always been easily shook up

Forcing you downstream

As if you had a choice

Into a whirlpool of answers

You’re not sure are right

Even when they’re not wrong

You wonder whether you’ve

Been together too long

As if your communication

Is like pouring water into an ice cube tray

You have dreams of hot tubs

And indoor swimming pools

A smooth voice without a ripple

A lover who will always agree with you

You begin secretly searching

For prices on the internet

When you hear the toilet flush

Like it’s angry at what you’re doing

You quickly close your browser

It’s time for bed

Your lover asks you why you

Always drink warm tea before bed

When you could have a cold beer

You argue over temperature

And how hands should

Be warmed up before touching begins

Then you have make-up sex, lukewarm

Leaving wet spots upon the sheets

That started out warm,

but now are cold

You begin to think about the reasons

There are so few hot springs

In the world