Thursday, September 24, 2015


Miscreants and Family

Elvis Presley is drunk again,
warbling “Burning Love”
on the balcony.
Mom is still in bed at noon.
The cats traipse across the sink
like tight rope walkers
or bloated spies.
My friends never come over anymore
and that’s just as well.
I blink and think,
blink and think,
as shooting stars land in my hair.
A firecracker explodes behind the left eyeball.
One thing is not the other
and no one goes to the moon anymore.
It’s time to face the fact that
we’re stuck here,
miscreants and family,
doomed to do our best
or bleed in place.


We float in the belly of a black cloud
or whale
wondering what to do next
while the Pope and Dali Lama
tour the country,
rock stars to both political parties.
You decide to fold yourself in half
and I follow suit.
The air here is ice cold beer and
the rain has silky shoulders.
You fold again and again.
Beneath us the Dali Lama is wearing aviator sunglasses
and tipping one back with Bono.
The pope kisses a child’s forehead.
Together we fold and fold ourselves
missing the child we never had.

A Game Of Cards

Clowns and scars
are the things that scare you most.
Hold onto the sleeve of a rainbow
if you must.
Tonight the moon is a bowl of whole milk.
while the stars look arthritic but swollen.
Across the lake someone is shouting obscenities
and half a world away a mosque is being bombed.
Whether the smoke settles or not
there is plenty to see.
Hope hangs in the balance.
The future wants to play a game of cards.

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