Anniversary
May 27 2008

I asked the old man the secret to a long 
and happy marriage.
It’s memory, he said.
Where others keep track
of blind spots, and irritating habits,
he keeps looking back at his bride 
  -   who hasn’t changed a bit
since their wedding night.

I asked his wife the same
and she said forgetfulness
  -   letting go of his mistakes, his famous impatience,
without feeling he owes her one.

They still squabble 
over the same petty annoyances.
They know the soft underbelly
that can draw blood
but avoid it.
He remembers
how she likes her porridge in the morning,
and she forgets 
when he burns it.

I was searching for a great abiding truth.
I’m glad they gave it less thought
than I do;
that they accepted their life together
and made the best of it. 
Because analysis eviscerates things.
Introspection becomes an echo-chamber
that’s almost deafening.
Deep thinkers
do not marry well
or long. 
Their fate is to live by themselves
and die alone.

Inner Lives
May 22 2008


I laughed so hard I cried.
Strong sunlight
especially in springtime.
And the singing cowboy
with the saddle-leather face,
who would only grudgingly say
“dust gets in your eye.”
Spilled milk, I can live with.

Some fret and fuss,
always armed with kleenex
to dab away tears, and swab at noses.
Me, I’d rather overflow
— the world looking misty,
tears burning down my cheeks,
and the incontinent feeling
of release.
And the bitter-sweet taste of salt
that takes me back to childhood.

Only humans cry, it seems;
but we know elephants mourn
and dogs can grieve
and there are inner lives
we cannot conceive of.

When you hold her so close
that your tears intermingle
and you taste her sadness
or loss,
it can overwhelm you
— her face wet,
her gasping breath,
her body
sobbing in your arms.
Resist the temptation to wipe her tears away.
Let her bleed-out her sorrow;
let her cleanse herself of pain.

Biosphere
May 20 2008


You feel it, 10,000 feet up
— the thin air,
the cool astringent weather,
a little short of breath.
Just a couple miles
20 minutes at an easy walk,
and the air that blankets the planet
is already getting threadbare,
close to bumping your head
against the cold black shell
of outer space.
So we huddle down here
on the warm green surface,
looking-up at blue skies
and cotton-batten clouds.
The ocean of air, it turns out
is a perilously thin slice.

I’d feel so much safer
underneath a real ocean,
all the way down to its floor
— the stillness,
the temperature constant,
the crushing weight
of water.
Where it’s totally dark
and the only sound, my heartbeat.
And though I’m washed back and forth with the tide,
and my naked body
swept along by vast invisible currents,
there is no sensation of motion, down here.
I am one with the ocean,
all my boundaries dissolved.

All Downhill, On The Other Side
May 19 2008


It’s not just the very old who regress
to 2nd childhood.
Because in middle age
I find myself getting restless,
as fidgety as an adolescent again
— full of angst and regret
and deeper questions, yet
about what will be left when I’m gone.

And with time less and less
it can verge on panic,
as impulsive as a teen-age boy
with the keys to the family car.
Dad always drove Buicks;
although I think he imagined a little red rag-top,
strapped-in behind the wheel.

The difference is
you feel like there’s one last chance
to get it right.
And that wonky knee
to remind you you’re no longer invincible.
So what a surprise
to feel this kind of passion so late in life;
that one old guy
thinning on top, thickening ‘round the middle
could fall so hard
head-over-heels,
like a kid with his first obsessive crush.
Except that this is so much sweeter,
a final chance at love.
Everyday, feeling that much younger;
so I don't even care
2nd childhood's catching-up.

Home
May 18 2008


The place I was born
is occupied by strangers.
And my parents, unsentimental
threw out box-after-box,
moving on.
As I did, once;
so now I live in a different city
one time zone later.

Here, there are mountains
instead of lake,
and the streets are wider, straighter,
and there are no secret places
from childhood.
So I feel off-kilter, some days,
wishing I could stand by the shore
lulled by waves
the breeze steady, fragrant.

And if the world ends
it will be one hour later
— as if an hour was warning enough
to prepare.
The sun is the same, of course
but the light is different,
a thin pale glow
so things look cool, distant.
It’s the pure mountain air, they say,
but I don’t know.
I think it’s my eyes
getting older.

I suppose I have lived here long enough
to call it home.
In this house,
where I keep my things;
where I go
to sleep;
and the days seem unnaturally brief
hemmed-in beneath the peaks.

All 6 Billion
May 17 2008


I am amazed
to be in this silent space
on a such a tiny planet,
and in this cacophony
thankful to be so deaf.

Because in this exact instant
someplace,
there’s a dying man weeping
someone fighting with his wife
and a newborn baby’s cry,
that shrill full-bodied wail.
And how many making love
all at once,
breathing hard
shouting-out the name of God?
Adding one-by-one to the racket;
all 6 billion
bristling with exquisite noise.

It would overwhelm me
to be crushed by so much sound,
by the weight of all this pain
and joy
— 6 billion seconds
compressed into one.

Downtown, there are wide sidewalks
people streaming past.
We keep on moving,
we maintain our space,
our separateness
as essential as breathing.
Because if we let down the barricades
the whole world would come flooding-in,
6 billion chattering souls
sending us running like madmen
— hands to our ears,
screaming to keep out the noise.

Writing My Way Out
May 16 2008


I am on the ground, kneeling,
wet earth under my nails
digging all the way down to China.

I am on death row, in an airless cell,
shovelling dirt with a spoon
furiously digging for freedom.

I am at my desk, over an empty page,
trying to write my way out
with words.

In the old days
they would gouge-out my eyes
for the sin of seeing the worst.
Or me, scrape away at my skin
desperate to get out the dirt.
Or drill down, deep inside
trying to find where it hurts.
This is compulsive,
like picking at a scab ‘til it bleeds
or that itch you scratch in your sleep,
but never really eases.

Words can be mischievous.
They stick to things,
like sharp little pricks
right on target.
Or like balm,
soothing open wounds
giving time enough to heal.
And the reader, pulling the bandage off,
with slow steady pain
or excruciating quickness.
Sometimes, it makes your skin crawl
just beneath the surface.
And sometimes, you feel numb.
And sometimes, it surprises you,
drawing blood.

Clockwork
May 15 2008


I bum time
like cigarettes —
“is it 4 yet?”,
as if hitting-up friends
for smokes.
Or even total strangers, when I’m desperate
for a quick fix of when.
I ask politely “do you have the time?”,
as if I had none, all my sand run out
— a panhandler
hoping for a spare second,
or a minute you’ll never miss.

Because I’ve quit my wrist-watch and cell-phone,
the conceit that I can step serenely out of time.
Except here I am,
glancing up at the sun
and calibrating shadows
and consulting random clocks,
smug at how close I got.
And even without knowing when
it’s all timing, in life
— the time you stepped-off the curb
into traffic;
when you got up the nerve
to ask her out.
And right there and then
your whole life was set.

I sit on this bench, watching,
people rushing by
heads-down, eyes-front
— determined to get there
on time.
While I live from dark to light, and season to season,
a refugee in a foreign land
who can't understand
the clockwork culture that surrounds him.
Where everyone’s trying to save time,
as if they’ll actually get it back in the end.

Hard Thinking
May 13 2008


I think hard about things
— world peace,
the ’92 World Series,
how seriously they mean “best before”
on a carton of milk.
An artist’s depiction of hard thinking:
eyes screwed shut,
great drops of sweat bursting-out of both temples,
and ears steaming red.
So hard, my head hurts,
and the harder it gets to decide.

There was that big man/boy from Louisiana,
a raw southpaw
who could throw a fastball through walls.
They hit him hard, so he humped-up and threw even harder.
His weary catcher trotted out to the mound
squirting tobacco juice, scratching himself
and drawled out 2 simple words:
“Try e-e-a-s-y !”
Not try harder, try easy.
So he trusted his stuff
and let muscle memory take over
and watched, astonished
as the ball danced and darted
off-speed,
its spinning seams biting the heavy night air.
Three up, three down — unhittable.

They always said if you don’t succeed
try hard, try harder.
Now I try easy;
and things seem suddenly clear.


They say "baseball imitates life" ...and that "baseball can teach all you need to know about life." I guess this is one lesson. B Green

Big Fish
May 9 2008


Turns out, I’m a little fish in a little pond
— fooled, all along.
It must have been refraction,
an accident of light,
or eyes fixed, either side
confusing the picture.

But at least it feels roomier, getting littler.
And not so much keeping-up appearances
looking fierce
consuming upstart little fish,
that taste like spiny Styrofoam.
Although I still bump-up against the glass,
and tiny flakes of food
raining down as planned
is getting old, fast.

So that smooth surface, looking up
still tempts me,
the source of sustenance and light
of mystery, and excitement;
a cold dry world,
so big
no one would ever notice
a little fish beside the bowl,
gasping
flapping on its side.

Elevator Music
May 8 2008


Elevators make me nervous
— the windowless cell,
strangers close enough to smell,
the man who was trapped on a long summer weekend
by himself.

There is no sensation of motion at constant speed;
so when a door closes, then opens
I feel a moment of disbelief,
as if a band of stagehands had frantically re-arranged everything,
while we stood, waiting
politely inside.
Or as close as I’ll ever get
to teleportation,
this snug steel box
around which the world rotates.

There is an etiquette to vertical transportation
— the acceptable conversation,
the averted gaze,
the unconscious separation of human bodies
that precisely maximizes space,
as if we were all mathematical prodigies
figuring it out in our heads.

I imagine this is the shortest trip we take,
far more civilized than strap-hangers
crowded-on to subway trains.
To be whisked-up on a thousand feet of steel cable,
or plummet down a dark narrow shaft
— praying
the brakes will catch,
the counter-weight won’t snap.

I stare intently at blinking numbers counting-off,
then feel that roller-coaster flutter
double-up in my stomach
when it stops.
I step out
into bright sunlight and air,
my heart beating fiercely
my body tense.
Next time
I vow I’ll take the stairs.

High Water
May 8 2008


It was late, when the ice went out,
and now the lake is full
higher than I’ve ever seen it.
The narrow beach is gone,
familiar landmarks swamped,
and tree trunks stick-up
like flooded fence-posts.
The high-water mark
that must last out the season;
melt-water stored-up
like a great waddling bear,
gorged for its long deprived sleep.

A mild chop
eats away at soft unaccustomed earth
— the shore, higher than ever before,
and a big blow, even worse.
Too soon for boats;
so cold, you’d gasp quick useless breaths
frantically gulping air,
and muscles would seize-up, flash-frozen,
and wet heavy clothes
drag you under.

So I stand well back, watching;
the lake brown with run-off,
a thin skim of ice
pushed by wind to the edge,
and geese
honking like irritable old men
heading north again.
They remind me of fall
going south,
when it was a long walk to water
over dried-up mud,
and I worried I’d end up land-locked
if there was one more summer of drought.

Because these small lakes are like weather
— a biblical flood today,
and in a month
I’m praying for rain.

The Definite Article
May 6 2008


I’ve learned to be suspicious of the definite article.
Like the truth,
received whole, irrefutable.
Or the people,
especially when one person
— usually in gold braid and a silly hat —
invokes their name.
Or even the future,
as if it were a singular place, and fate had us by the nose;
instead of an infinite array,
where the tiniest contingency could make your head spin
and your life veer madly off course.

Although you’d think at least the past was safe,
carved onto monuments
inscribed into text.
No, look again
because while your back was turned, the past changed,
and you go there at your own risk
— re-visiting history
stumbling about with blinkers and chains,
lugging behind
all the grievances and myths you were weaned on.

Just the facts, you’re tempted to say
— and there it is
that damned article, again!
An understandable temptation,
because in such an uncertain world
it’s reassuring to be so definite.
But I prefer the humility of ignorance
and doubt;
where I can respect your version of the past,
and feel thrilled
that with so many futures
there is always a second chance.

Small Talk
May 4 2008


There is small talk
strapped-in, taking-off.
Where to? . . .where’s home?
nervous jokes,
jostling politely over the arm rest.
The last living person you would cling to
dropping from the sky like a stone.
And to think, you’d have never even known his name.

There is small talk
you were almost too old when you learned.
How to tease, how to flirt
how much fun it is to play;
and how safe,
because it never goes further than words.
How giddy you feel
how full of possibility,
flirting with the cliff-edge of mischief.

There is small talk
seated at a formal dinner,
no religion or politics permitted.
Dishing gossip, TV shows
how unseasonably cold it is
— like a cocktail glass of words, lightly stirred
tinkling brightly down.
Or soda pop that’s lost its fizz
well before it’s served.

But it’s left alone
I really need to be heard.
Which is when I mutter under my breath
or find myself talking to God,
imploring
scorning
shaking my fist
— angry monologues, with a silent God
I don’t even believe exists.
But I persist
making small talk to myself,
hoping someone’s listening-in.

Plate Glass Window
May 3 2008


My brother once walked through a plate glass window
when we were kids.
Floor-to-ceiling glass, beside an open door.
OK, not exactly through it;
more bounced-back, with a bloodied nose.
Now, he goes through life that way
— peering ahead
hands out front, feeling his way;
as if invisible barriers
penned him in.

Me, I no longer trust glass,
that such transparent stuff
could be solid, substantial.
So I keep my distance,
my nose never pressed-up to windows
past the 2nd floor.
And I only sip from ceramic mugs.
And driving
I flinch a lot.
After all, don’t they say that matter is mostly empty space
and solid surface
mere illusion?
And if our molecules vibrated a certain way
we could pass right through it,
slipping sideways
seamlessly.

So sometimes, we’re impregnable,
tempered triple safety glass.
And sometimes we’re transparent,
ghosting through life
over-looked, unaware.
And sometimes
with the slightest touch
we tinkle into tiny little pieces,
fragile crystal
showering down
— a heart-stopping crash,
then a thousand lethal shards.

Until the dust settles,
and a man comes along, wearing gloves
and sweeps us up.

Love Abides
May 1 2008


That you can love someone
without liking them
doesn’t strike me as odd at all.

Because there is nothing intentional about love.
You get born into it,
like mother’s milk
like blood.
Or you fall
every neuron firing like crazy;
into blue sky, no parachute,
or face-first
onto pavement.
Or a kind of contagion
— the voice of God,
some ideology
that will save us all.
So like loyalty, and obligation
love abides.
As someone smarter than me once said
“home is where they have to take you in.”

But it’s friends you’d rather be with
— the fun times,
the parts you easily forgive.
And the relief
no one expects to move in,
no one to pick-up after.
And above all
the laughter, and disasters, you’ve shared.

Best friends from childhood is rare.
The boundaries of friendship protect you both;
and still, your secrets are safe with her.