Winter rain splats like an egg 
in a cold frying pan.
This morning my mind 
is refrigerated, congealed,
a rictus of cheap margarine –
I scoop fat substitute thoughts
with a spatula. They splat in the pan too,
alongside the egg.

Isn't there meant to be
an order to things? Heat 
first, then butter, then egg?
Kitchen mullions rattle
as the Nor'easter tests their strength.
The vacant house across the way –
Is this the year the windows break?
Will it give up the ghost
in a final shiver of broken glass?

Outside in the storm, as with the world,
birds have abandoned flight.
No flying south to depilate winter,
the bikini waxing of dreams –
no tweezing the snow moustache
from elderly Florida swans.
No way to take the hair 
off it all.

You toss me a frozen bagel and laugh –
hardtack or life buoy 
for a morning's survival, 
my shipwrecked words 
wash ashore this deserted island.
The rain slants, cants,
through these old portholes. 

The Sunday Muse

The Sunday Muse

the Sheep-to-Shore 
phone rings
  
you say ignore 
the elephant in the room
  
during Thanksgiving dinner
its ass-end smell
  
turkey
and gasoline from 
  
the fuming motor
of democracy winching it
  
through the doorway
hoping the walls don't burst
  
then we can just go back
to where we left off 
  
our regular grift and
holding our noses for 
  
Isaiah 53:6 
all we like sheep 

The Sunday Muse

 what is a turbinado
 and how did it get in my coffee?
 this question stirs and 
 then dissolves
  
 my mind needs a mulligan
 just one day that doesn't
 crash test my brain
 and blow out air bags
  
 or leave me punch drunk
 from the rope-a-dope news 
 a la Ali with me praying
 for the bell
  
 can we go back to simpler times?
 like Nixon Vietnam and
 the National Guard opening fire
 on students at Kent State?
  
 OK no bad plan
 Manson no no not that
 either good god no
 '38 and Kristallnacht
  
 gaaah! There's no end!
 Rawanda Cambodia Sri Lanka
 the Armenian Genocide and 
 The Terror of the French Revolution
  
 this is not going well
 my poem not yielding up
 the calm surface of Haiku –
 Old Pond blooms with scum
  
 fine no headlines today
 no nervous sounds of clicking 
 like the tiny claws of squirrels
 scrambling across the shingles
  
 I'll just read about science
 this piece on no my god
 Murder Hornets 
 and they are orange too
  
 like stinging lights 
 behind the eyes
 of a four-year long
 concussion  

The Sunday Muse

the sound this morning's
breaking 
broken light
the blues
made me happysad
because muddy waters
do not baptize 
us holy wholly 
with salvation only
part the red sea
into blue and you
and I sing "Halleluiah" but 
we're lost as heaven knows
Leonard's lonely heart 'cause 
"love is not a victory march"
I don't know how
all our voices
can open the soul
when only the gospel
in bluenotes are sent
on a red letter day 

The Sunday Muse

Did you hear the one about the alcoholic liver
that went on a road trip with Jim Morrison, Janis,
and Jimi? Me neither but your wife
snatches the phone from your ear
while you cough in spasms of laughter
and screams at me what are you trying to do kill him?
because your liver isn't coming home from on tour either
 
I ask you what it is like to die, is it interesting
at all or just boring or a pain in the ass do you
wish it was finally all over and before
she can click off the call I manage to yell
I want a preview and can hear you choking
but a good choking like the bong hit really landed
deep when we were in high school
and said stupid shit like death is the ultimate trip.
 
Only you and I know what I stole from you,
girlfriends were fair game but I took your poem
and never gave it back, it's still here in my pocket
where I unfold its origami of blotter acid
like rolling down Colorado Boulevard
with you at the wheel tripping Van Gogh, me riding
Dali shotgun, and Liz our very own
Kahlo shouting Lucky’s speech
from Waiting for Godot out the windows
 
The words of yours I took were more precious
than sex or dope or rock and roll in one perfect
moment, everything I had in me needing transgression,
needing violation, opened naked opened like
the doors of your car at the red light with me
puking tequila and pinto beans
from the all you can eat buffet at Casa Bonita
 
How long now have you lived without poetry,
how long have I held friendship hostage
to words, how much of you is on every page
I write, how much unspoken has been dying
between us for years and I stole
what I wanted to say on the phone
 
If I'll see you no more in this world*
I'll meet ya on the next one
Don't be late
Don't be late





                                                                                              *Apologies to Mr. Hendrix

The Sunday Muse

tape your hands
with light
jam horseshoes of light
into your gloves
lace light
across the leather
and pull it tight
with your teeth
 
after pushups of light
speedwork furious
with light
heavy bag swaying with
body blows of light
your jump rope
braided and hopped up
with light
 
running dawn's
steep miles
as you eat sleep and breath
light
 
so that tonight
even with history against you
 
bending not toward you but away
the fix in
 
you punch so hard
into the sky
 
that darkness explodes
and night falls
 

The Sunday Muse