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.