Tuesday, September 13, 2011


It starts simply enough, a symphony of birds who
Clearly value their constitutions and sleep in,
A leisurely double espresso in bare feet and shorts,
John Coltrane simmering in the kitchen and

Me slouched in a straight back chair at a red and
White striped table centered by a chorus of
Unlit candles and a conically folded white napkin.
Rain patters on the veranda roof in the next room,

Streaming in such a way to pass the dishwater sky
In front of a series of circus mirrors, the stares of
A cigar-chewing fat man, a rail of a girl with a half
Eaten cotton candy and someone with the misfortune

To resemble a pavlova sculpted by a blind man
Read a magazine over my shoulder with interest.
I wonder if the perks of living everyone’s childhood
Pleasure everyday outweighs never having a day of rest and

Being obliged to stand at attention for hours at a time.
I answer my own question silently and lay my
Magazine down as the rain grows still, allowing the sun
 To illuminate a sink full of dirty day-old dishes.

Motivation Letter

I am seeking
                                    Something new
That I know
                                    Something challenging
That I’ll achieve
                                    Something fulfilling
With no surprises
                                    Write back soon

The Poet

I sit in the wake of a day well spent
Bridging  two forest green lawn chairs
With my feet, my bare toes strumming
The holes in the back like a bluesman.

Absent-mindedly parsing thoughts between
The rough hewn strings, above me an
Indecisive sky blows blue then grey then
Blue again while I count the hibiscus blossoms

Which August has already claimed.
I wonder if flowers go to Heaven and –
If so – is it the only afterlife where it rains
Long and regularly with burst of intense sun.

I note the still impeccable state of the red bird
Feeder on the worn white brick wall and
Worry that the neighborhood fowl consider
It a one-star establishment in their travel guides,

No bath, slow room service and only me for
Light entertainment apart from you, opening the
Garden door to ask what I’m doing out here
To which “writing” is my only reply.