The Walls

The walls speak volumes
of pages arranged in books, magazines
stacked one on the other, or
she, the Zombie Jet,  is leaning across his lap
paying Homage to the Lone Wolf on this moonless night.
The walls hold up our lives that otherwise might
spread across the floor like oil slicks on puddles,
auto headlights reflecting back into dilated pupils,
blinded, we run off the road only to
find ourselves.

what to say

what to say,
the window frame chewed off
heavy glass in pieces
like my heart once again
for no good reason except
what to say except that you love the one
who loves the other and so you
accept the broken glass,
the chewed window frame,
the laptop askew, spilled detergent,
a cloudy windowpane
that looks forward to one
day when the door can stay open,
the windows will let in a breeze
and we can walk out freely
into a summer eve, hand in hand
without a single backward glance.

off camping..see you sunday!

Steve Jobs dies

everyone read about it on their iPhone,
their iPad, or amongst the older or less wealthy set, their Mac.
Steve Jobs has died.
the Reed College drop-out, a young father not quite ready,
the adoptee who finds his sister, a friend, a colleague,
a genius
with standards as high as the stars
that shine a little less bright tonight,
one of their own has gone dark.

Fire Hydrant in Forest

city dogs need city hydrants
no self respecting city dog will pee on a lowly rock;
one of dozens perched in a lousy field,
only a hydrant will do.
we will set one down at the edge of the forest
for dogs walking by, bladders full, just
looking for the perfect place to pee.

a perfect Fall day

no matter the state of the world,
protests on Wall Street, burnt cookies.
no matter tedious work assignments,
undone dishes, children who don't call.
the sun filters through golden leaves
on this sunny day, speckles of sunshine
glitter on eyelids blocking our view of
the downtrodden, the suffering; we only
see glory and optimism.

The Neighbors

he beseeched city council to save his nest egg
let the wind blow in all year round to cool his ardor
let water drain from his rooftop into his coffee pot.
the garden is lovely, contained within an ornate iron gate
he pulled from a garbage heap at a job site, the better
to contain his lovely from leaping from a swinging chair
pastels in hand, a paintbrush piercing her nose,
a camera around her neck to capture
what I wonder, what does she capture all day in
that green house, only venturing so far as to
paint street murals on neighborhood pavements.