REVERSE FLIGHT

I am an eagle

in the morning,

soaring over mountain

ranges, ruling the heavens.

I will represent nations.

I will not acquiesce

to the lessers, I refuse

to be shot down

as I fly. Or maybe 

I am the last struggler

in a line of geese

grateful for 

the aerodynamics

of my brothers.

Could I be an ostrich?

Tall and dumb 

and disproportionate

to my tasks?  And oh,

Christ, that giant

belly!  That tiny head!

Or maybe I am a turkey,

as we used to say, a word nerd,

a wallflower 

refusing to bloom.

Or maybe I am a chicken

about to be dressed

and served on someone's plate.

A chicken, longing for 

something other than your 

grocer's freezer. 

Dreaming of the leg, breast, 

and thigh, yet

too afraid to spread

his wings. 

SHORT FILM

When snow falls on the streets

of the city after weeks of

mild weather, cars inch

across the asphalt, exercising

caution. Tire traction is

this season's new black.

The blizzard is past, she says,

but that doesn't mean

that things aren't still

covered in white.  In fact,

I can still see the white powder 

dancing in the air as she films.

I picture her inside,

presumably warmer,

going about the day's business

with a beauty 

that sparks envy 

in January's strongest drifts.  

AFTER THE LAMENTATION

It was a quiet morning. 

The sun slide between the blinds, but 

it was cool in that perfect space 

between early and late. 

I listened.

The house was as still as a monastery,

Mute as a mime.   

And then I remembered

How In the canyon last night, 

while I paced beneath the fog-covered moon, 

the coyotes sang 

their aching lamentations, and

Gazing at the stars, 

deferred to the infinite heavens,

like the fur-bearing 

Monks that they are.

HEROIN MONK

When the Zoloft began to help,

my mood lightened a bit.

I crossed myself absently,

swallowing each pill like a communion.

Stunned, I watched as the sun

became more lamp, less blade.

Later, breathing became my drug of choice,

and noticing the smallest detail was

the flame beneath my melted spoon.

In bliss, I sailed past sky and clouds,
past space, into a dream of God.

Even now I smile as

The hot needle
(my inhalation and exhalation)

(My presence, my focus)

hovers near the vein.

WHILE LISTENING TO ELTON JOHN'S "ROCKET MAN"

In the

backyard

I stare into

the sky

where a

gossamer

fog

encircles

a white

winter moon.