write poetry

I dreamed that I spoke
with the children
that I never had
and they asked me “why?”

After we broke up
she threw away
the photos of me
from her wall

Great gaps
of white space
between colorful
memories she retained

For a time
she was my love
my great love
only love

Long dark hair
brown eyes
and a smile
joyful to behold

She had small hands
i remember
buying
the ring

And then the emptiness
the white space
between the others
that she chose to keep

See the white space
on the wall?
That is the space
where I used to love

springtime
was in the air
red wing blackbird

singing
cool breeze
warm sun

my father’s voice
still in my head
i could remember it then

i stopped
to go fishing
it reminded me of him

all these years
later
i remember

the sun
the breeze
on my face

but i cannot
remember the sound
of his voice

I know why I write
and I don’t like it
not one little bit

But, it’s not
as though I have a choice
that I can say no

The words flow
like blood
from a wound

Arterial
pulsing
pulsing

Bleeding the thoughts
the memories
the pain

Which no bandage
no bandage
can staunch

Last night in a dream
Josie cuddled with me
kissed me, held me

Her nipples firmly against my back
her words whispering in my ears
I awoke

The best part of my day
over
4:30 in the morning

Blind
or nearly so
he sits
listening to C-SPAN

“Can you find
the local news?”
he asks
squinting towards me

Sixty years ago
he knew everyone
today, he
knows almost no one

Once a week
Tuesday’s he visits the
old folks home
to cheer them up

“I’ve lived too long”
he told me
“I’m no use
to anyone”

My mom called it the “shack”
it is a hunting cottage:
one bedroom in the woods
small

I visited there with him
he’s trying to give away his life
through the gift
of his possessions

“See anything you want, take it”
Fishing reels, traps, deer antlers
hatchets, axes, and railroad locks
“It’s no damn good to me”

In his basement
a slide rule taken
taken from the ruins
of an aircraft plant

Outside of Nagasaki
He arrived there
an occupation force member
and the slide rule

He wondered if it was used
used to design aircraft
fighting in the war
“Damnedest thing” he said

“The writing
is all in English”
I wonder
if it’s radioactive

how could i have known
she was the wrong woman

we exchanged vows
and drove away

thirty years on
i cry most nights

tonight
couples danced

tonight
couples kissed

tonight
six jack daniels doubles

i have no business
in front of a keyboard

i have no business
sharing my thoughts

only anger, frustration
and wasted years

you have no idea
no idea what so ever

the anger
like a fist

in my chest
clinched

so i drink
so i write

driving fast in a large car
cracked concrete
under my wheels
bump-de-bump-de-bump

fossils fuel me
moves me
out of detroit
bump-de-bump-de-bump

obvious metaphor
big car
driving fast
bump-de-bump-de-bump

blow the doors
off a hybrid
hummmmmm, hummmmmm
bump-de-bump-de-bump

drive like hell
drive like hell
drive like hell

There was a beautiful photograph of a card catalog, and I posted the poem below as a comment to that photograph:

love the idea of a card catalog
everything has gone digital
the whole god-damned world:
nothing but file.
the computer nerds
stole our word
file
and monitized our searchs
imagine
money for looking.
no money in this catalog
it is comforting
paper files and
wooden drawer.
it is humanizing.
solid oak caress
the cards’s edge
it is love.

If Neruda were alive today would he be a rockstar?

Would he wear tight black tee-shirts and sunglasses like Bono?

Would Neruda host telethons to raise money for some good cause and cry as the night wore on?

Would he sell his likeness on bottles of beer in Tokyo train stations or would he read his poems in town-hall meetings?

Would he be chased down by the paparazzi in motor scooters as he sped through the tunnel of our emotions?

Would he patrol the streets of Baghdad in camouflage and carrying an M-16 loaded with Portuguese verbs?

Would Neruda sell hedge funds describing their complicated, inexplicable workings in terms so romantic and desirable that everyone, every living soul were forced to buy?

Would he read us the evening news?

Would he eat special foods and show us the photos of him before the diet helped him trim unwanted inches off his waist and give him the energy of a twenty-year old?

Like Neruda: I have no answers. Only questions.

You said that I could not
Provide you
A semblance of permanence

Now thirty years on
Married to a woman
I don’t love

I think of that instant
In my car
You in the backseat

Wearing jeans and a red sweater
Your hair cascading
Across your shoulders

She in the front
Blue eyes
Angry

How confused you were
How fucked up I was

All I needed was a sign
A tug on the sleeve
A smile, a word

And I would have flown to you
Like a bird on the wind
Swooping down

From that disastrous height
Of stupidity and ignorance
And into the embrace

Of the woman I loved

I remember that day
Thirty years on
As it were yesterday