Dogs should doze all day

aren’t dogs supposed to doze all day

doped up on sunshine on the living room floor

half eaten rawhide at their side

waiting patiently for Master.

instead this one dozes half the day,

energized enough to destroy a gate

and go looking for Master only to

remember he’s not allowed to cross

the street, finding himself back at the

gate, depressed and discouraged that

Master is not there and he is standing

outside the gate, despondent that

he is not dozing on the living room floor,

doped up on sunshine. 

Gripping the Fat Meter at the Fair

he told me to hold it like a steering wheel,

not telling me I was driving directly into a ditch

filled with other porkers like me.

my number on the body fat index was,

well, let’s not go there, shall we,

yesterday I wrote I’ll get thin, bare my skin,

maybe I better hold off on that

for now.

In Place of Harvard Tuition

I'll have a massage or two,
every month, heck, weekly,
and still save money
for you, honey.
We'll party in Paris,
dance in the Dolomites,
bike across the Balkans,
and still save money,
honey,
I'll color my hair, get thin
and bare my skin, all with
a grin as I save money,
honey.

Cutting it short, an afterrnoon at the hairdresser

fix it so I can stop wearing this hat

only removing it to put my helmet on

or to sleep once the lights are turned off.

fix it and remind me not to let the other

hair stylist talk the whole time wielding her

scissors like a wanton axe as I

watch with horror, my hair falling

away to reveal a mullet.

fix it, cut it off, do something,

quick.

Calling Dad, or not....

"I love Mama" tattooed across his left shoulder,
ratty muscle shirt draped over skater shorts
whizzing by I had to slam on my brakes to avoid
hitting him hearing him saying "Hi,Dad".
how sweet that he loves his parents looking so
tough, so young, so ....cool I caught up
with him at the stoplight, his tattoo didn't read
"I love Mama" just my imagination that tough
kids love their mom and he didn't call Dad either,
just a friend, but he called after me as I rode
away from him, "I would have called my
mom, though"

Passion and Piss

she described me as having the right mix of passion and piss,
is that the same as when he called me a junkyard dog, or
something like persistent, relentless or annoying perhaps
too much and hey, lay off already!  or only at a distance
not if you live with me and the dogs are lying on the couch
after they came in from pissing all over my rose bushes.
crap.

Fighting for the Neighborhood

I'd rather sit by the fire eating cookies and drinking hot toddies,
or curl up in my chaise or pour pesto over hot pasta to accompany my wine.
I'd maybe rather be cleaning the bathroom than stepping out in the rain
to walk past that once-lovely house with the double wide upended trailer
pasted on its back end, but alas! I must!
Aah, the absentee landlords which send out mass mailings to us fortelling
our misfortune should we fight for the neighborhood that we love.
I'll rouse myself, put on my oilskins and boots, and face the Council
to deliver our message of love of our little neighborhood with its little

quirky houses, eclectic crew and lovely Garden, too

Getting Letters

if you send a SASE, perhaps a fish will come back
from across the sea to tell you stories of princesses
basking in winter sun, of long whites and afternoons
watching apparitions of faces in the crowded cafe,
petals on wet black boughs, and travelers who find
loneliness in so many countries.
come back to me, little princess, from across the
sea and we will bake cookies and eat faro, read
ezra and add pounds of butter to shortbread cookies.

enigma of emily's emdash

an emdash, an endash or a mere flick of the wrist,

a grammatical reprobate or the madness of an eccentric

capriciously jotting down a note while baking a cake.

in a house all closed up, curtains down, her hand

sashays across the page, first giddy with long

strokes, then quietly slowing to catch her cup of tea

mid-stroke, a parabola of droplets raining across

her newly written poems. 

the 100th MDAT run

I pull my hair, massage my

scalp, pray and rub my face,

pick at my fingernails, willing the

result to make sense so I don’t have to do

yet another as the hours creep by in

fourteen minute intervals

five minute analysis,

one minute frustration,

three minute setup,

five minute run and on and

on until the day has worn away,

so have I

Dominique Strauss-Kahn

He sits in prison alone,

the collective warmth of one million dollar bills

that will release him cannot remove the chill,

the low hum of the electronic bracelet

cannot replace the music he listened to as he raped her,

the warmth of her fluids on him is a memory

he can hardly withstand, his brazen manhood shrunk

to despair knowing he will never

emerge victorious again.

On picking grapefruit spoons

Grapefruit sections

lifted onto serrated spoon,

a morning quality of happiness

that rises to delight when they

alight on your tongue, so

bright, so right.

Viol,relations sexuelles sans consentement ?

did he come out of the shower, nude, to rape her,
sight unseen, her small French protests drowned out by
the bathroom fan, or
did they share a glass of wine, or port, one
evening enjoying the beauty of the language so
far from home, and then
did he push her down brusquely, forcing himself
upon her after she smiled one morning, that morning,
no one was there to see,
no one was there to hear,
there were no witnesses,
only her small voice, and his
protestations on the way to jail,
no one really knows,
or does it matter
the result is the same
for her,
un desastre.

Poem not working: Annoying Boyfriend

it’s hard to write a poem when the boyfriend

just keeps talking about whatever, whoever,

who cares, the dogs need to go out and bark

and he’ll sit on the couch and mutter for

them to be quiet as if they hear him,

then wander off to use his new toothbrush,

its high frequency hum hurting my ears,

I wish he’d go to bed so I can write my poem. 

Crow

black death on wings, beady eyes fixated

on the nest hanging below the eaves,

there is tender flesh nearby on which to feast;

his slender body hones in for the strike,

like a missile targeting a crowd of innocent

civilians as they drink their afternoon tea.

The Last Hurrah

six hundred bottles

two thousand numbers

one hundred fifty t-shirts

ninety-nine pens and sixteen pencils;

seven boxes of pins

five hundred “various” to

make a road race run for

a small few hundred Lycra-clad

riders, too small to make

us do it again, the last hurrah

the best hurrah, home again

to a clean house, an uncluttered

mind, no plans for next year,

hurrah.

A Writer or a Career Criminal?

He knew this line was written for him, and only him.

“This sort of person either becomes a writer or a career criminal”

He knew he wasn’t what he thought he was, reluctantly climbing

the stairs every morning to his desk, reluctantly lifting pen to paper,

only to scratch a miserable poem into yellow ledger day after day.

He wasn’t a writer!  He knew he was meant to be a career criminal

all these years, time lost and not a moment more to be wasted,

he grabbed the plaid suitcase his wife gave him for their 25^th,

stuffing a raincoat, boxers, a revolver and an extra condom or two

in as he slipped his feet into his Keds, rushing for the door before

she came home from the dentist to find him gone, off on a new adventure,

a new crime, one no less criminal than wasting your life.

A Blogroll that does not roll often enough

Weeds were distracting me until the rains started.

Four planets glowed in the dawn, then took flight.

As of yesterday, Life only made sense as a story.

The weedy outsider showed up at my house a week ago

until he got busy and showed up at Sharon’s for lamb espresso.

Diane was misty along the Mesa trail three weeks ago, and

when all is said and done, growing up is hard.

So let’s go participate in a climate forum, rendez-vous

with the Moon and finish the day eating oyster stew with

wild rice and mushrooms.  

Adopt A Road Cleanup

we know them well, the ones who empty

their ashtrays into the night leaving a stream

of white butts scattered along the shoulder,

for someone else to pick up.

we stoop to pick up an empty bottle of Strawberry vodka,

a plastic six pack holder, another empty can of

Bud Light, a Styrofoam take-out.

We know them well by their scat, its odor,

its ubiquitousness on every highway across America,

the white trash that throw trash.  

Bikes vs Girlfriend

whereas the Girlfriend insists on being the only

one even when She is busy with friends,

away on travel, disinterested, grumpy or otherwise indisposed,

Bikes are always there, wheels shining,

ready for anything. all Five of them!

the mountains call, the city streets beckon me

to stop for coffee on a sunny day, over hill and dale

I can wander, even on the snowiest day, my Bikes

are there while the Girlfriend is away, all five of

them or more,  why bother with a Girlfriend;

all you need is a Bike.

To Mothers!

to all mothers, I salute!

the 24/7, the enriching tedium!

to the baby’s smile that magically

allows us to change yet another dirty diaper!

to another decision on what to make for dinner

that everyone will eat, to another battle over

who does the dishes, to another long sigh

over yet another sibling fight,

to motherhood!

to the day they launch with honors,

to the day they take vacation with friends,

to the day they call from far away lands

to thank their mothers who

today sit at a sunny table in May

drinking mimosas and reflecting

on the loveliness of being a

mother.

Three words at random

love anguish adoration

how fittingly adorned around her robe

yellow with green, blue on red

high heels and golden hair

she dances while glancing back

in anguish at her adored who loves

another.

Living the Dream

Notwithstanding the glamour of living in a castle

when viewed from afar, the plumbing fails and the

maids can’t clean the centuries of cigar smoke from

the great room walls.

Notwithstanding the grandeur of the master suite,

the heating is not adequate, the draft gives me

the chills and the fur blanket sheds onto my silk pajamas.

Notwithstanding the bargain, the incredible sale, 

I find it to be a bit lonely out here by the sea while

my girlfriends bundle off to Herrod’s for shopping

and tea, all the while wondering about me and

my impossible dream.

Photo from the NYT Magazine, March 20, 2011

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/03/20/magazine/Key_Castles-10.html

If Only

if only I were a pebble in your pocket, I would

write verse while you slept under sonnets and stars,

if only I were a strand of silk, I would weave myself

into beautiful clothing for you,

if only I were a dog roaming in the streets, I would

run to the market to steal flowers for you,

dear pebble, come to me and let me read your verses,

beautiful silk, let me feel your softness against my skin

let me smell the sweet aroma of flowers

left on my doorstep. 

Dead as a Dust Bin

2001:  sleepy eyed in Seattle

elevator descending to ground

zero when the towers blew up

bodies into the flaming air, molten

metal streaming down steel skeletons

as I gazed at the man across from me

eyes wide open, what?, no, can’t be.

2011: payback ten years  later behind

tall white walls dressed in barbed wire

where a man stands, then falls

as blood splashes against the

back wall.

Birthday Boy

yellow shirt and lederhosen, school tie flapping behind him

he could almost taste it dissolving on his tongue

heading away from school, not towards home.

coins sweaty in his palms, a new red bike,

it’s his birthday, no homework, no

chores, just a big bag of black

licorice, all for him.

The Republicans

fifty thousand leap from their seats cheering on the fight

rivulets of blood course across the sandy stadium floor

we celebrate the body and blood of Christ our Lord, amen

to chains drenched in the sweat of slavery for the Emperor

Tour Bus Lines filled with Japanese tourists filming the sites

without having to look at the thieving throngs

looting everything not bolted down, and then the bolts,

until the columns stand only by the grace of gravity

and only a shoemaker can make them whole again.

(Amazingly enough, an Italian shoe company is funding a restoration of the Coliseum,  because all Italian women buy lots of shoes?  I got onto this topic after reading poems written by Chinese poets...don't ask me the connection.)