A FINE MIST

in the stillness

my breathing overpowers

as a fine mist 

anoints the curb

calm for now, I can tell

that it is nearly time

for the reckoning.

CONFESSIONS OF A REINCARNATE

my soul

has jetted from star

to star 

before

more than once

it has ascended 

into 

a kind of strip mall

heaven

wallowed in orgiastic pleasure

then fallen on hard times

lifted itself beyond

the tombstone-colored clouds

then landed on

an old slurpee cup

in

the parking lot

of an abandoned 7-11.

my soul 

has jetted from

to star

before

this isn't my

first rodeo.

AN EXPLOSION OF SPARROWS

sparrows explode

from the treetops

making a sound that

reminds me too much

of gunfire. I can't help

but think that 

there is enough 

violence

in the world right now

where people carry

bombs on their backs

and, out of an inarticulatible 

anger, drive 

into crowded bazaars

hoping to destroy.

And, as the sky grays

and rain becomes a baptism 

of grief and acquiescence,

I wonder people can't just live 

and let other people live

in peace, unmolested,

why can't 

birds be birds who lift 

their sleek bodies 

into the sky

because rising is a marvel 

and should be known--not as a metaphor

for gunfire-- 

but as the beautiful miracle

called flight.

RAIN AS REDEMPTION

Most likely, the sky 

could not be more cold and gray without 

snow falling 

on the store roofs in the strip mall

where I sit in the coffeehouse. Inside,

I sip a white hot chocolate

and nurse a cheese Danish.

This moment in the semi-warm

shows me that even though things 

are not what I once thought,

individual strokes of the clock

can be harbingers of redemption

sweet moments as gorgeous drops

of almost snow 

streak their oil slick rainbows 

on the shimmering canvas of asphalt.

START SPREADING THE NEWS

I'm walking down 

42nd street 

toward Times Square

and can feel the electric

impulse of the people. 

The unspoken mantra of the crowd?

Keep moving. Keep moving.

I've seen the department store

where Thanksgiving balloons 

are carried by loopy volunteers

and I walked right up to 

the neon sign where the ball drops 

on my television at midnight

every January.  The pulse of 

Scorse's Mean Streets vibrates,

Where Rizzo rapped on the taxi's hood,

Where Travis Bickle came after giving a monologue

To his mirror. But in many ways,

it's simply dark and cold. 

I've never seen 

so many lights and colors

and the only thing I can think

to do is to file them under "N"

for "not me, "not mine." Under the

pulled close lapels of my coat

I whisper to myself, 

"What am I doing here? Why am I here?"

MUSK

An entrepreneur

creates an electric car

make my house run

on the energy of the sun

creates an electric car

and then sends 

rockets into space

in the hope that someday

we may live among the stars.

I peruse the list 

of his accomplishments 

and wonder if I am somehow 

less of a man

if all I can manage

is to tap a few words onto a page,

teach a few things that I know

to those who are younger than me,

or hang Christmas lights 

from the unsteady eaves

of my house without falling,

back first, onto the cracked

slab of my driveway. 

AFTER RANCHO SANTA FE

I dreamed I was staying

in a fancy hotel

during winter. The hallways

we're lined with red carpet

and chandeliers hung from

beams above our heads. 

The weather was so rough

that, from outside the crystal

Windows, I could see the ocean

and knew the waves would soon

crash against the panes.  

I remember thinking, this isn't mine.

I don't belong here; 

Turning away, I listened to

some talk radio. A commentary show.

It soothed me, in a weird way,

to hear some washed-up comedian 

going on about some stuff 

that was only vaguely amusing. 

BRISK DECEMBER

My skin tingles

as I watch 

four ducks 

paddling their little 

duck bodies

across the creek.

suddenly one

admonishes 

another

not to hold

up the group

but to keep up

and even though

I am on what is

supposed to be a 

leisurely stroll

I quicken my pace.

CALIFORNIA RAIN

i'm surprised

by the music

the rain makes

as it falls

in silver sheets

gunmetal clouds

gather

red berries

and green leaves

tremble

travelers hunch

& lurch

beneath their

hoods & umbrellas

like blurred works of art

scrambling

thru this water concert,

a kind of spasmodic

winter dance

WICKER BAY COVE (SOUTH CREEK PARK)

A hot air balloon hangs in the sky

like a gumdrop.

School kids roam

the playground like ants

a boy on a scooter

zips by the backstop

calling “Look at me! I’m going

as fast as I can!”

I remember those young days:

the lazy winters

with pink and lavender sunsets

the carefree summers

laughing on the sands of

La Jolla shores

the easy autumns

returning to the classroom

to share what I know

the exceptional springs

when the world comes alive

again and the green-veined leaves

are reminders of my youth.

Where are those days now,

you ask?  I keep them in

a box in my closet, next to

the tax returns, the VHS tapes,

and the Father’s Day cards

from the kids.  

And I go there

now and then

when I want

to be young

when I want

to be

the young boy,

but not the one

who is saying, “look at me!

I’m going

as

fast

as

I can.”

OLD ROBES

light the candle

mouth an alleluia

see the heads bow

in the nearly empty

pews

the traditional service

isn’t

for

everyone.

DO NOT BE ASHAMED

of the sunrise that makes you cry

of the warmth you feel in your blood

when the clouds divide

themselves into sunlight

over the lake.  

Do not be ashamed of your heart 

and the way it breaks

in grief when you see the carnage

we cause in other countries

Do not be ashamed of the joy 

you feel at the skipping child's glee

or of the tantrums

you throw when life leaves you tired or stressed.

This is natural.

These are not things to cause you shame, Rather,

these are the vital signs of the living,

the green and brown and gold leaves

of your life,  the nails in the door of your days

that make you human

and ensure that are still feeling

in a world that scoffs at love and kindness of any hue.

DECEPTIVE HANDS (ON THE EDGE OF THIS LIFE AND THAT) - WIP

though much happens

in this life

to like

to love

to enjoy

to savor

the prayers

for my 

selfish desires

go largely 

unanswered

by a god

who seems ambivalent

preoccupied

or just too busy

with sandwich and poker game

to get back to me

even

my own actions

(as halting as they are)

betray me

and stab me

in the back

with their deceptive 

hands

and sneer at me

with that insincere smile.

SAN DIEGO RAIN

There's never much rain here

so we're grateful

for the stuff we get.  

The clouds collect

in the sky, gray and angry, 

as if startled or annoyed by

their own presence.  

There's nothing wrong

with seventy seven degrees

nine-tenths of the year.  

But watching the unexpected

deluge peppering our streets,

our cars, and the roofs 

of our homes, it looks To be

some kind of beacon,

a strange signal, a portent, 

not wholly ominous, 

that the world is no longer 

what we think. 

A SONG TO CALL MY OWN

                        after Wendell Berry

I ignore the coyote cry

in the wild

step past the yellow leaf

that should be my salvation

here in November.

It has yet to dawn on me,

however, that I want 

for nothing, everything 

I need is here.

Yet I look to the moon for answers

and curse the silent sky

for its mute indifference.

Though I think I need more,

the truth is, I have what I need:

a roof, some bread, a song

or two to call my own

when the last day dawns

and the birds make it home.

SHITTY MAGICIAN

He practices his misdirection

using banter

that was last witty

in nineteen thirty-one.

An infinite stream of scarves 

leap from his sleeves

but they are still stained with

last night's dinner.

His Chinese linking rings

are no longer 

politically correct.

He pulls rabbit after

rabbit 

out of his ass

and still wonders why

the rabbits are pissed.

He cuts a woman in half

but is eviscerated

by her after.

In short, his tricks

are broken.

And yet, with his arms raised

in a gesture of victory 

and showmanship,

he disappears as the closing

music plays 

from the auditorium

of Life

and waits for applause

from an non-existent

audience, and finally

and with a flourish,

exits stage left

from

what was always 

a dark and empty theater.

OCTOBER IN NEW YORK

it is even possible

that this month

the country boy

from the east county

will find himself

in the middle of

Times Square:

the smell of dogs and pizza

arousing the dregs of his desire.

the taxi horns honking

their urban aria.

the neon pulsing

against his beating heart.

the remaining scrapers 

kissing the sky

in their best Hendrix impressions.

the anxious crowds

navigating around him in the streets

as he holds his reverent 

and stunned silence 

like a spirtual offering

in the palm of an otherwise

empty 

hand.

RAIN SONG

Rain is a forgotten art

in this town

and so when the dark

din of the falling

sheets wakens me

in the middle of the night

as it roars outside 

my bedroom window

I listen and I look. 

What am I searching for,

I ask myself as the sky plays

                its water music? 

Am I seeking a bridge

across the chasm of

the empty marriage bed?

The sweet Braille of letters

forming words 

that will earn 

                my daughter's love?

Or am I looking for a way

to help my father remember again,

or perhaps a prayer for the erasure 

of the evil inside my mother's lungs that, 

even now, may be ticking off 

her final days?

Or could I be looking for a door 

leading back into that happy home

where the gap-tooth girl sits patiently 

(still lonely and hurt),

but forgiving and open-armed.

Sing, rain, sing to me

and, in your music, 

remind me why I'm staring

deep into the soul of 

your steady, silver song.

GOD'S DILEMMA (A PRAYER)

god

there are too many guns

in the hands

of the

unhinged

too many

of the crazed

shooting up

our most sacred

places

of knowledge

& hope.

too many guns

in too many hands

whose hands

are outstretched

not in giving, love,

and serving,

but in taking,

maiming, & killing.

god

there are too many guns

and yet not enough

guns

& not enough love

for the unhinged

& not enough care

& safety for

the crazed

nor help and security

for the lost

nor protection

for the innocent

nor guns enough

for the people who would

use them well

nor minds big enough

to understand

why one more person

has to die when

loneliness, isolation,

& despair

pulls that last

hopeless trigger.

EMPATHY FOR MICHAEL

There are fires

thousands of miles

from here, and

crowds

who have run wild

in

the angry streets.

There are

upturned cars,

shattered glass,

ordinary hands

lifting up staffs

against The Machine.

What do I know

of this hatred

that makes

average men

turn to the staff

and the stone?

Nothing. But if

I ask myself

tonight to feel

for them

to feel LIKE them

(even for a moment)

then maybe

there’ll be one

less fire

started,

one

less broken

window, one

less boy down

in the street.

AHMED'S CLOCK

Time doesn’t explode
in the same way
a jet does when it
penetrates an office
building window
during the early morning
coffee break. First,
they were talking about last
night’s Letterman, but then
the conversation was lost
and choked in the screams
made from the smoke
and the death and the desperate,
haunted calls of
first responders.
The words dissipate like vapor
because there are no words.
Make no mistake:
when your name has
a little color in it
people who are still grieving
will see you not as you are
in God’s eyes (regardless
of His nickname) but as
you are in their heads.
And that's a shame.
Nevertheless, I fully understand
that a banker falling
through The Big Apple
sky, knee bent in a kind
of half-prayer, is
most certainly a sign
of the purest evil, but
it does not excuse
the metal marks
that must surely
still burn
on your skilled, dexterous,
and once cuffed wrists.

SAN CRICKETS

       though the crickets 

are mute tonight

the absence

of their music

        still keeps time

in my kitchen

where the dishes

have just been done.

        it is as

if their little

legs, 

still arch and slice 

through the darkness

and sing their

sharp summer song

as the clean 

white plates begin

to dry

in the rack

          by the sink.

hey john

the guitar 

was like your

second tongue

a sad

accompaniment

to your

self-destructive 

muse

those songs

you played me

on the homemade tape

where, in some way,

a lyrical foreshadow

to all

that follow.

tell me:

are you happy now

now that you are

singing in the clouds

the way you do

and listening 

to the rock

and the punk 

and the doo wop

singers slinging

their a capella

street corner

sounds

are you still pretending

you don't like 

a single note?

is it really heaven

there,

to hear 

a song you love

then wait for the 

tiny intermission

between the bands

just enough time

to think and joke

and maybe make 

some small talk

with a group of friends

before the final act?

Homily

if i wanted to

i could listen

to the sermon

again during

the next service

take notes on 

the structure

consider the theme

or find some 

mnemonic device

clever enough

to internalize

the strategies 

he said might

lead to redemption.

instead I focus

on exactly how

his voice intoned

the words

how his perspiration

lit up the face mic

and i ask

not how my soul

might be saved

but what are

the three things

i need to know

to command a room

just so.

Sunday Night Haiku

Neil Young's harmonica

on Heart of Gold.

the crickets sing back-up.

Once In A Blue Moon

in the southern part

of the sky

the moon is a lozenge

too big to suck on

and the kitchen light

is yellow

and comes through 

a cobwebbed window.

The cobweb throbs

like a sign. 

In the canyon

beyond the yard

small, gray rabbits 

twerk to the tunes

of the sparrows 

who make music 

in the branches

overhead. tomorrow

there'll be time enough

for redemption.

Yes, Of Course

is it any wonder

i miss you

on nights like these

when the roses in the yard

look nothing like

they used to 

when the apple tree bends

toward an ambivalent dusk

when even the rabbits

in the canyon 

are running from something

is it any wonder

i miss you 

on nights like these

when the eagles are

on the box

singing about

a peaceful, easy feeling

and i have no freaking idea

what they're

talking about