Tuesday, May 31, 2011

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. 

Monday, May 30, 2011

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.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

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,
I'll color my hair, get thin
and bare my skin, all with
a grin as I save money,

Friday, May 27, 2011

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,

Thursday, May 26, 2011

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"

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

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.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

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

Monday, May 23, 2011

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.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

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. 

Friday, May 20, 2011

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

Thursday, May 19, 2011

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.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

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.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

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.

Monday, May 16, 2011

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. 

Sunday, May 15, 2011


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.

Friday, May 13, 2011

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,

Thursday, May 12, 2011

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 25th,
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.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

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.  

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

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.  

Monday, May 9, 2011

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.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

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

Friday, May 6, 2011

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

Thursday, May 5, 2011

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

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

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. 

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

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.

Monday, May 2, 2011

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.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

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.)