Snowfall

When the white blanket

falls through the night

with photographic stillness

in a world turned black

and white with

frozen breath and

freezing tears.

A crystalline glean,

fragile and eternal.

So strangely empty,

strangely serene.

Christmas

When I was five

I became aware that

December days were played

like a game of moral dice

against an Advent calendar

where each day was marked

with little paper flaps

noting misbehavior

and since Santa was

always keeping lists

like a roly-poly bully

who lurked in winter's

shadowy chill and mist

and I knew that

he could watch me

through the TV set.

Silver Moon

In the shadows

of a silver moon

in a desert land

of caves and cliffs

and saw shaped peaks

sharpened by the

crust hard winds

of a vast salt flat,

bleached pale

like bones,

swept clean and

shrouded in

in a silver haze

above lost silver mines,

beneath a silver moon.

A Parliament of Owls

Jiggery piggery piggery poo.

Jiggery pokery piggery woo.

Applesauce, so sweat and tart

That went all jiggery too.

A parliament of owls flew in,

A meeting of feathery friends.

Hooting with their eyes wide shut,

They caucused till the night was out,

This parliament of owls.

Rhyme and reason are out of season

And those who think otherwise

Are guilty of treason.

Jiggery piggery piggery woo.

A band of coyotes rocked away.

A band of coyotes on parade.

They eat up ma then chewed on pa

And asked lil' Timmy to give 'em more.

Jiggery piggery piggery poo.

Jiggery wiggly piggery do.

A car of clowns have come to town

In a slap fest for the crown.

Jiggery piggery wiggly woo.

Around 3 AM

Around 3 AM in some

midnight of the soul

where distant sirens wail

like banshees at the door

and night burns into

colors like rust

beneath the flickering

vapors of sodium lights

that reduces the moon

to a tin shadow

made small against

the angles of mismatched

roofs until it fades into

the smog of yesterday's

last bad scene.

Sleeping In a West Virginia Field

Mourning doves stir and coo

In early light draped pale

By mist and the dew

Grew thick between our toes.

We had slept that night

In an open field picked blind

After a late night's drive

Through countless hallows

Lit by the fires of ten thousand tires

Burning wildly in a junkyard heap.

A breath of hell like a Bruegel print

As the flames flared tight

To the side of the road.

By noon the huddled hills were

Sweeps of green and hummingbirds

Swooped to a dulcimer lilt

Beneath a leafy canvas,

Beneath a translucent sky.

Jesus On My Toast

I saw Jesus on my toast today,

He just winked and waved.

Asked for butter, extra salty

Then sent me on my way.

Moses was at the crosswalk,

Parting the cars for sport.

Said he needed a new tablet,

With WiFi and every app.

Buddha was in the coffee shop

Dreaming of a creamy latte.

He nodded off quite gently

To dream of sprinkles with

A pinch of spice.

Welcome to the 6th Extinction

Welcome to the 6^th Extinction,

No reservation required.

A waiting seat at every table,

No shoes or ties requisite

And tipping is declined.

The thought is overwhelming

If we ever had a clue.

Well we have a clue or two,

Deeply buried in the litter

Of life's routine distractions.

Our gods shall be forgotten

As our history turns to dust,

Like Ozymandias and his legs

Alone and weathered in the sun.

Behold ye mighty, yet again.

For all things rise

And all things fall

And the cycle begins anew,

Ceaseless and ever changing,

Oblivious to our will.

Lost

Lost town

Hidden deep in hills and shadows.

Abandoned homes bleached white.

Fragments remain,

Memories.

Beginnings

First star.

Final embers of cosmic birth.

A bang, they say, profound.

Eternal dawn

And night.

Always

Soft silk,

Like the first blush upon your face.

The quizzical stillness

Of our first kiss.

Always.

Family Snaps

Gelatin-silver, shadows fixed,

Tiny frozen snaps of time.

Old photos poorly stacked

In a box at the closet's back,

Buried in a crypt of

Mothballs and old coats.

Three generations reaching back.

Faded memories of picnics and

Birthdays and dinners and trips

And so many poses with so many folks

With the same bewildered

Frozen smile.

I have relatives I never knew

With names I rarely heard

In family tales that only

Grandparents ever understood.

About lost family friends with

Their ancient cars who drove

Just briefly passed the camera's

Impassive lens.

Perhaps, I think, one solitary

Figure may be my great-grandfather.

In a field somewhere, here or there,

Since a plain is a plain,

Hungarian or Midwest.

This one fuzzy photo is

All that's left, like a ghost

On a summer's afternoon.

A Thought on Herman Melville

That Melville guy did a number on us all,

Don't you see, when he

Struck the one great metaphor

And stole the perfect symbol

Of a doomed American dream and

Then, like a drunken sailor adrift

At sea, the ruined search for that

White whale indeed, that Moby Prick

That roiled its way into the canon

While leaving us, his inheritors,

Doomed to the dark eternity

Of referential scores.

State of Disunion

Do not turn my drama

Into panic

Simply to rob me

Of my self-indulgent fit.

Oh woe for me,

This narcissism is our

Common currency.

Irony is the singular curse

Of the cheaply jaded;

Glib and often meaningless

Like wilted roses

In an empty room.

We have all become

A lonely dancer

On a crowded ballroom floor;

Spastic motions of

Disharmony

Set to the beat

of a drunken drummer.

The commonweal

Broke up online

Abandoned in the rain

Like a rejected suitor

On a tea party afternoon.

Thinking of William Blake

Oh where are you Willie boy,

With your bowl of burning gold

And sword unsheathed

In poetic might against old

Satan's mills?

That sweet Jerusalem

You never found

Among the pastures green

And ancient footsteps still

Unseen in shadows lost

Among the hills.

A vision as pure as dreams,

More beautiful than any tiger,

Brighter than any flame.

Like your arrows of desire

From which Jerusalem

Yet will spring.

November 1963

Once, when you were

So near the Sun

As with eagle's wings,

Another Icarus so you seemed,

On a late November day

When we found ourselves

In free fall

Along a nasty road

Best not taken

And the hapless journey

Has continued ever since.

I was in Fifth Grade

When the world went hush

Between each breaking bulletin.

Such a silence, such a stillness

Except for a lone girl

In the back of the classroom

Softly weeping into a grammar book

She hadn't opened since last June.

Tarnished armor and tattered tales

Cobbled into a mythic flame.

A legacy of images liberally mixed

With facts as well as fiction

In a Hollywood blender,

Half tawdry in its grandeur.

It was the first revolution

Broadcast live in Black 'n White

With wyrd sister Cronkite

Spinning a convoluted tale

Of mindless mad obsession

That still plays like the climax

Of Oz where the man behind

The curtain stands naked

But unseen.

Devote we were

In those golden days,

At prayer every week

In the school house basement

With our heads between our knees

In quiet meditation to

The holy missiles that

Moved like shadows

In our dreams.

Those were the wonder years

Of the American century

As it glimmered and flared

Like a bursting star.

And even you were like a nova,

Intense and brilliant

For one brief moment

Then quickly dimming

Like sullen embers

Turning cold against the night.

Once, after a flood,

I found an old Civil Defense

Barrel water logged and open

And spilling out its treasures

For life in Armageddon.

A bottle of stale water and

A pack of moldy crackers

And illustrated instructions

For turning the barrel into

A post-atomic toilet.

It was an age both different

And the same.

In a single day was

Childhood's end

As cynics came to play.

It really wasn't the end of

Innocence for that had

Vanished long ago.

It was the end of something

Undefined.

The end of some conviction

Yet divined.

In the Future When I'm Gone

In the future when I'm gone
Which is a lousy proposition
Based upon a half-baked circular
System devised by a second-rate
Creator who couldn't figure out any
Better way to end the story
Except by bumping off every character
And then discovering that the audience
Was gone despite a pitch for
The Heavenly Gate which plays like a
Pointlessly over produced “sequel” that
Leaves us stuck with every one we ever knew
(Some of whom I could easily do
Without).


So in the future, if I'm gone
Which is open to debate
Because I have some definite objections
To any ideas that were never vetted
By my lawyer and even if he were
Sober enough to deliver an opinion
I already know which way I lean in
My decision and all in all would rather
Be in Philadelphia as long as it isn't
That Sixth Sense kind of deal

And a steak 'n cheese is in the mix

With a good slather of onions

And fries on the side

And even then I am not going

Since it doesn't suit

My taste.

Sweet Dreams

Sweet dreams
Lost at the
Penny candy stand,
Somewhere next
To the nickel cigars.


Desire flows like sand
In a summer rain,
Clinging tight
To your fingers
Till the sun
Dries it hard
And bakes it brittle.
Then it flakes
Like a snake
Shedding skin
And drops like the past
In your way
Across the floor,
Crunching loudly
With every little step.

Toward the Canonization of Philip K. Dick

In the shadow of

That High Tower

We still abide,

Between a Roman wall

And Earth's green fields

And otherworldly spires.

Pray for us, St. Dick,

Pray for us all

As we ponder every vision

From every Revelation

You had received

(Which, oddly enough, were

More theologically precise

Than the average

Schizophrenic fit).

Half-sentient though we be,

For consciousness is a slippery thing

As we stumble through life

Like fleshy machines

With programs surely fried

By conflicting wants

And pinpricks of desire.

Cogito no ergo sum,

Ergo ego zoom

Vast are the hymns of

Active praise

Longingly sung to such

Infinite wisdom and

Saving grace.

Infinitely is the answer,

Which is why the questions

Are more profound.

Amen.

The Notebook

Opening an old notebook,

Ink stained and brown,

I found a note from myself

Like a private code

Barely readable,

Sounding like a stranger

Who once used my name.

Philosophy says “I think

I was, So therefore

I must have been.”

Nearly forty years ago,

In student days with

With a bearded frown,

For only the young can

Waste so much time

In a studied state

Of seriousness.

I spent a lot of time

Jotting down quotes.

So many pages of

Thoughts profound.

Now they all

Sound like postcards

From a clown.

The past so often

Stays elusive.

It's like bumping into

A forgotten mate

Who knows your name.

They speak in such familiar

Tones of days you find

Best forgotten and you

Quietly wait until they leave,

Seeking inspiration from

Their absence.