TODAY WILL NOT BE

about visiting relatives

or telling the same old stories

around the kitchen table

or living in 1950's houses

in cities that refuse to age.

Today will not be about

taking a Sunday drive

through two-laned roads

where freeways now sing

their white noise song.

Today will not be

about Disney movies

in the theater 

that's no longer there

or watching VHS tapes

of Sesame Street with

children who now sit

through SATs and who,

like farmers, try to grow

scholarships like stalks

of Midwest corn.

Today will not be about 

whispers in the night

during sleepovers with old friends

dinners by the bay

where red, green, and blue lights

shimmer on the bay's black water

or the old dairy in the woods

up the street from the school

where you were once kissed 

behind the bookcase

Today will not be about

your family in a Polaroid

clad in pajamas

huddled around a tinseled tree.

Today will not be about love

or peace or innocence.

Today will not be about 

fireworks in Los Angeles

a live band in a dive bar

picnics by the water

or that warm March night

that keeps returning 

like a weathered dream

(pure and white) 

as if it were its own phase

of a new Spring moon.   

No, Today will not be 

about these things, but how lovely

to think it could be.

WHAT HAPPENS IN THE SUMMER

I believe the ivory moon at the edge of the sky
regrets its last choice.
I believe the wind in the mountains
is whispering its purest wisdom.

I believe the aging starlet
cruising Ventura Blvd. remains hopeful
for love and money,
though her trackmarks
are still fresh and enflamed.

I believe guns are not the problem,
but that triggers and bullets are,
without doubt, the devil's work.

I believe the motorcycles heading for the ocean
are stealing what's left of our sanity.

I believe the soldier who sleeps
fitfully in the foxhole
is simply dreaming
of parades and backyard bar-b-ques.

I believe that nothing is worth anything.

But there are times when
I believe

a red/lavender sunset
and a swig of good beer erases the
remaining melancholy
and prepares you for the earth.

PRESSURE

the sprinklers
shake the house
in the middle of
the night. after 
rubbing the sleep 
from my eyes
i investigate. walking
outside, i see
there must be
a hundred snails
on the front lawn,
inching their way
toward the cul-de-sac.
I see no sign
of trouble, so after 
checking on things, 
i head back in.  
but i can't get
back to sleep
because i'm wondering 
if the pressure's too
high. i spend what seems
like hours
staring at a dark celing
waiting
for something
to burst.

QUESTIONS FOR LANE

What do you think 

when the monster
first comes
out of the sea
and takes you?
What runs through
your mind
as he yanks you by the arm
like an angry parent?
Do you have time
to say, “I think they call
this swimming,
boy, the water
feels warm, and look at
all those pretty bubbles?”
Are your eyes peeled, as you
go under, for Ariel, Sebastian,
or Nemo, or are you just trying
to get your lungs
to work the way
they used to
only seconds before?
Do you have the presence
of mind to stop and think
of second chances and how,
clearly,
next time you should stand farther
from the shore?
What is your first thought
when you see your mother
back at the blanket
when her hand flying to her mouth
and the fear in her eyes
are your first and only indications
of danger?
Do you pray, as if for
Communion, that
when you get back
there might still be some
Cheerios left in the Tupperware
and maybe just
one more drop of
juice in the sippy cup?
What do you think, Lane,
when you see
your father,
who like a knight,
is fighting that giant green dragon,
inches from your limbs,
but to no avail?
Do you think,
that's okay, Daddy,
God has me now
and rest assured,
I know
how hard you tried?

THURSDAY MORNING, OR THE SUBTERRANEAN SUBURBURBAN BLUES

Because the men

working on the roof

have been banging

and sawing for days, 

I expect the neighbors 

will be calling soon.

What do you do

when the mower 

won't start and 

the gardener's been 

deported?  

What is the cost

of my first world 

problems? How do I

train satellite dishes

to lean toward my God?

It's only 7 a.m.

and the latest 

complications

have arrived:

a snake  

hidden in the deepest

bush in the yard

& that busy beehive

singing and buzzing 

as it fuses to my fence. 

MINDFULNESS

in the clear black
night
the round moon
is the color
of bone,
& the air is so clean
it's like breathing
glass. look up,
i think,
stare into the gray
clouds that line
the horizon,
see in them
the possibilities
of light & shadow
and, for once,
witness a single
     inhalation
that isn't consumed
by everything
life isn't.

ON HEARING THAT THE GREEK WORD FOR "SIN" MEANS "MISSING THE MARK"

Sometimes a

bullseye

Is hard to hit.

The arrow sails

a little right

or left

of the target.

Sometimes you get

so close

that you’re happy

simply to have connected

at all.

But sometimes

the arrow

flies too far afield

and lands in the dense

brush, is lost, and you

have to reach

for another

in your quiver.

In those moments

you simply thank god

you have more

arrows

to chose from.

Once again, you lift your bow

focus and concentrate

and draw back the string.

The tension builds in

your muscles

and much of the time

you’re not sure just

when to release.

But the moral

of the story is

that even if you miss

the mark,

if you pull the strings

enough

not bow-like,

but harp-like,

it sometimes
sounds like music.