Oh, my friend
you have got to
create it
invent it
reinvent it
choose it
work it
revise it
hatch it up
hunt it down
then you have to lose it
and then
find it all over again
the gods make plenty of happiness,
hell, they give it away in bundles,
but
few people have it
so be on the watch
when they offer it to you.
It is a beautiful struggle
and the only one there is.
Bolivian hotel after a confidential word
with the
concierge
As I step down from
the chicken fluttered bus
I'm hit with a blast of
popcorn bag heat
opened directly into my
face and I glide through
the cheek and jowl streets with
tangled knots of aromas from street market stalls
I feel life flow back into me(!) as I
grow nearer and remove my aviator shades
perching them on my head with my left hand while
my right hand confirms a
lump of faded colonial pointed nose men
aiming towards the bar recommended by the fuzzy diced
1995 caprice classic taxi
driver with a broken air conditioner and
I see fleshy tropical
shirted gringos appearing uncommonly popular
at Las Diablo Bar.
She holds eye contact
for 5 glorious seconds
and slides through
perfumed air towards me
and I rewind to a
time of
cars and lakes and
cascading hair
and beery mirth and
soft touches and
the freshly packaged
newness of youth that the counsel of
my years will not
surrender
and I become intoxicated by the whole
damn thing and
soon we are
stumbling into the sharp
edge of the city
through dying light
past corrugated iron and angry graffiti.
We are sniped by well aimed stares of
lost possibilities from
women whose
arms are thick from
lifting children.
Their eyes have no
flicker.
These things cause
our buzz to fade a
little
and we become less
tactile as
we reach a concrete
squared house with a
sleepy hammock and
mongrels and dusty children kicking a ball
and a grandmother slowly and silently lifts her face
towards my mumbled
greeting
but her hands
continue their soapy toil.
I find myself in
a bare bulb room with a
picture of Jesus that I
remember from childhood Catechism
on the wall and an old
iron post bed with thin sheets and soon
I see this:
The symmetry of her face,
close up, is melting.
Her lip curves
slightly up on the left side as
does the right.
Matching almond eyes
with a brow of gentle
waves and laughter that
occasionally breaks
into flashes of
sadness.
A child is conversing in
the
next room in animated tones
playing with
a (formerly) blonde one
armed doll who is
competing with a tube tv
broadcasting a
Brazilian soap opera.
A rooster crows, a
reggaeton
car thumps by and the
street noises converge
into a disquieting hum.
We shift from grip to
grip to grip as
a tired oscillating
fan moves slowly
left and right and left,
as if
in disapproval.
Pete
My friend Pete is
a good man,
been with the Company for 9 years,
married to his wife for 7 years.
He quit drinking 2 years ago and is quitting
gluten from his diet next year.
Never had an accident (caused a few, though),
cuts his grass every Saturday at 9 a.m. sharp.
and his shirts are neatly pressed
At conferences, I see him grinning over the
top of a cup of white
chocolate mocha with soy,
and I always wave
my vodka in his direction.
He is what women call
"solid," and then
they say, "well, it was time to settle down, and
and I can understand that.
He will likely pass quietly in the night,
with that "peaceful look" spread across his
face.
I often hear his loud clean laugh at parties,
as I fuck his wife
in the pool room.
5: 07 Pm At Coconut Joes Bar
Perched on the stool with my feet
hooked into the rounded footstep
I
am
Preened
eyes scanning quest
who suddenly appear
and I lock onto them in the cool Revo
shade of the liquored watering hole
displaying bleached fangs
at striking distance as
skweeking noisy groups
of twos and fours engage
in skittish gossip
I am base and knuckled and
primal – no affectation of
enlightenment, evolution, religion
or Gloria Steinem
technology ancient in
gelled hunt of perfect
savagery with a
denim cloaked tool
seeking prey
before closing time.
A Blink
It can take years to get things sorted out,
whatever it is or was that keeps you static.
Sitting there waiting with only your self doubt,
while all around you life moves on and you're stuck
in a slow motion scream.
We are all moving towards a conclusion,
it's something that our dance with destiny cannot
escape. Sure, there you go trying to reconfigure
life's illusions.
All I'm trying to do is advise you-
a problem shared is a problem solved. So look in the mirror
and tell me what you see - and be honest.
These Questions we have and
Answers we want,
they are like an Ocean. And we just float on the surface,
fearing that we get drowned. Can I tell you my friend - this life,
it's flying by in perpetual motion. And what could be -
can pass you by
in a blink.
A couple on a Sunday Drive
There are no disagreements as we drive along,
encased safely in the car, a road
split by the center line.
Practiced vowels, consonants and syllables
roll predictably with the hum of tires. Each topic
measured as the roadside poles,
the conversation's selected tone
mirrors the
ca-thump ca-thump ca-thump
of the the paved highway joints.
We stare at the windshield and
think of things that must be said - instead,
the words shift, twist, and turn
in our mouths
like worms, then sit angrily,
before we
brood them out of separate windows in
silence and
continue down the road
somewhere,
the receding light of the sun
searching through glass then
fading
in the rear window,
frame by frame
until the light is
gone.
Dear Lady
I brought you everywhere
heart racing beauty and
your razor wit, ravaging you in
dark places seen only by mirrors
But
Now we go nowhere
goldfish in an unquenchable bowl
looking at the spinning clock
through a furtive window and
raging until the angry shafts of light
cut through blinds scorching
regrets and sworn goodbye
too deep, too fast
a damn mistake for
you are shallow as dust
on a table railing against reason
taking gold with your straw man soul
What pressure you put my blood under!
But my heart has charged and
I have cut your credit cards
Leave
In Brighton, a suburb of
Denver,
at 6:03 pm on a Tuesday, a woman
in dark shades is seen
careening through
a yellow traffic light
turning red,
grinning straight into the
windshield
days rerunning behind her:
41 Christmases, 3
mortgages, 4 cars, 5 dogs
7 expired drivers licenses
2 slippers under the bed
Days fill
Nights fill
Glasses fill
Calendars fill
Beds fill
She never fills
But what life did she
expect?
An ant is crawling across
the
knuckles of her driving
hand
He knows the answer but
he's not telling her
Radio rising, orange tip
of a
cigarette sparks the dark
out the window
a light beer in the
cupholder
she eases down on the
pedal
humming rubber on white
concrete
going somewhere:
factories without smoke
drowse soundless
ships sail from distant
harbors
cars run silently at
highway rests
numbered seats fly across
time zones
the world continues to
be the same
without her.
The Girl In A Yellow Dress
I saw you yesterday in a yellow summer dress,
the color of high dosage diazepam, through the
rain streaked window of a familiar bar, as I walked by,
somewhere in the city,
and I could swear you saw me, then turned away -
like that moment when a bird decides
not to eat from your hand. I had not seen you since
graduation, but I thought you should know this:
I hit harder in schoolyard fights when
you were watching (and you did watch!) .
I tackled harder in rugby matches when you
were watching.
I ran faster in races when you
were watching.
There is an August beach photograph of you and me,
in our 19th year, tumbling hair, greedy as seagulls.
Maybe you've just been all the wild in me.
Some pictures don't come down easy from the wall.
It's been years of small victories and large defeats and
drinks poured,3 cars,2 dogs, expired drivers licenses,
landlords, mortgages, and 15 Christmases.
Are you happy as you thought you would be?
I'm just lying here, writing you this email on
these hard springs. So let's meet at that bar, tomorrow. Yes?
Don't worry. All is well here,
but
there is Something Coming towards me
across the floor. Oh, it just a rolling bottle of wine,
this
time.
There is a place in me that is never filled.
And this is where I am likely to be found.
If you can find this place - Do Come In.
The Real Culprit In The Matter Of Love
Walking alone one windless June night
fear looked at the clock and asked,
'So, was there love or no love,
and what or who is to blame? '
Ah - Indifference. Though born of love,
it has no lover, circling slowly,
patiently with dull eyes,
peering below at the growing
empty spaces between words,
then plunging down
scattering swirls of feathers,
leaving hope bewildered and blinking back
a million tears of rain falling on the
upturned face of the sea.
But so you emerge with quiet eyes and
draw the curtains to a rain fresh morning and
the surf smooths out the new pages of white sands.
And the soft roar of the day
begins.
To Hell With Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath And Rothko!
Awaking from a delicious dream I turn in my bed
to face the sea window and peer through quiet eyes
towards a fresh orange sunrise that looks painted
in oils, as it emerges from the inky depths
into slivers of sirrus clouds spread against the clean
baby blues of a canvassed
Caribbean day and my dog and I bounce outside,
only to see a blooming green pair of parrots who have noisily
flirted in the animated foilage above for weeks.
Today they finally
kiss, rub heads, chatter and make plans to
Carpe Diem! - as they feast on
purple grapes.
They
are
getting
down
like James Brown dancing
on my radio and me driving,
top down, even the stop signs with cheery red faces
seem to hold up a hand and say HEY! - and traffic lights playfully
wink at me along the way.
It is Friday and half day at work. The fire alarm abbreviates
this day perfectly, and soon the phone buzzes my thigh with
messages of, 'We R here! ' and 'Hurry up! ! ' - and I drive
along with the
sun kissing my left shoulder.The sea to my right sparkles
with diamond caps, and the waves
kiss and pull away in the covewith white water thrusts of eternal
pleasure.
Soon I pull under the cool green leaves of
almond tree shade and
enter the pub aside the sea and there is that
moment:
I spot
my table,
friends,
one potential lover, and
they smile and
wave me over to perfect pints of beer,
giant glasses of
red wine, and a jug of red sangria.I feel
settled.A coolant of content
flows through me.
I will just stay here.
This Is How It Is -
The little ant stood on the edge of
the curb, to avoid being stepped on
and looked down,
as the city crowds shuffled by,
faces clinched to another
average day.
And someone noticed the little ant,
on the curb's edge - and shouted
to the ant, 'Jump! Jump you little fucker! '
It's tough out here.
Tuesday 1: 37 Am
She had moved to her bedroom
almost a year ago,
existence: it deepens
like a coastal shelf
It is now 1: 37 a.m. and she
hovers over a laptop and
scrolls through the faces
embedded in rows of squares,
each person digitally trapped
in windows that cannot open.
A New Years Eve Party:
Her mother looks out in the photo,
as if the photographer
is saying something complimentary,
she holds a beer, her father is holding
a glass of wine.
A day at the beach:
Camera in front of her, Ocean behind her,
Her eyes are wet and still, a boy dozes
next to her, the tide came in later.
A snapshot of a marriage:
Michael is starting to turn his head
a little, with his eyes looking slightly
to the side. Was he beginning to
leave her?
She wants to open these frames,
stacked in towers, straight down
and across, and let the people leap out,
one by one, but to where?
The light from the screen
pours over her head, through her
hair, down her body and
forms a puddle around her.
She cannot hear the faces screaming
her name from the computer,
their sounds drown in the fluorescence
as she reflects in this light and then
becomes It.
And this light floats upwards
filling all the shadows and
outwards escaping through the darkness
like a summons to the white spaces beyond
this narrow focus
to where she imagines to find herself
among the pale weeds and the sands
trying to blossom
Today's Agenda: Seize The Day
I want that thing that Lord Bryon
panted after, coiled around my ribs
and pumping, blood rushing to that
warm glow of oblivion.
I'll plot like Macbeth with my trophy wife,
ruby crown, twisted knees at my feet,
wading through power, til it's over my head.
Before me lies the shoreless seas that
Columbus saw, into that jagged wind,
no sunlight reached, punching those
hard sea caps westward.
I've practiced that cashy swagger of
Gatsby. Looking down through long French
windows from the leafy hills above.
Society page, big house - here's my
check.
This is how to live! - blazing across
Van Gogh's Starry Night, swimming in the
swirls and brushstrokes of that hot orange moon
and those boiling stars.
But a light afternoon wind caresses my nuzzled
bottle of beer whistling a soft dove call across the
City Park overhung with white oak trees and
coins of sunlight and
I take a swig and lie back in the sun, tracing a smile,
so grateful I called in sick today.
Punching the Moon
There are delving days when the ink blue sea whispers to me
in a sexy voice, “Come over here boy, and give me a kiss.”
“Hell no girl! I am not easy like that! Anyway, I have
too much to do.”
I want to get cashy and swagger with America,
drunk with England on cool draft lager,
dine with France on her clean white linens with shining silver,
then turn to Italy, her eyes of tawny pools, and say,
“You and I are going dancing with Brazil.
We’ll splash across the Atlantic and
samba all night!”
Some days I feel like punching the moon out of sight,
swatting down the stars,
pouring the oceans down the drain,
and switching off the sun.
There are nights when the skies thunder with revelry and streak
with disco lightning and the rain drinks champagne
and mother nature, with her thousand Arabic pleasures,
sways over to me slow thighed….
But I’ve got to finish the laundry now – I’ve got a ton of it to do.
