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.