Roadkill

Leave me here,
a casualty of the road,
too slow for your urgent wheels,
too sedate for your reckless ambitions,
too much blur in your rear view mirror.

Leave me here,
a victim
of my guile,
belly down on my own blade.

I saw you on the TV
grinning through your moment,
the sound bites gnawing
the glam from around your eyes.

Then we saw you on E!,
your smile so cold,
each moment’s flash-snap
a nerve dead inside you, exposed,
pulling the final colors from our world.

 

St. Paul

Sara called him St. Paul
and it stuck like the mold around here.
Most nights we saw a single candle
a yellow-white eye on his black screened porch.

I watched for it
when I left my shift at Barney’s.
It was a beacon, a lighthouse
a constant in our down cheeked years.

We were glistening then,
newborns,
cherubs of hormone,
clarified butter,
new puppies on the loose.
“All puppies are cute” ~ God

St. Paul could be counted on.
Like Betty Crocker and Decca Records.
like a Bob Hope grin,
as the wit of Carson,
or the wisdom of Mr. Spock.

Wales from the Window

I ate toast as the post came.
I admired her poise,
her athleticism
as she reached to the box,
flipping it closed
with a firm alacrity.
such form.

I rinsed my dish
as the post went.
She kicked grey plumes
of gravel dust.

What relish I’ll have
in the walk down the lane.
To polite screams of the violets,
the restless whispers from the moor,
the litany of our bills.

Beautiful Steamer

These old boxes stood,
curious relics
cornered with metal, brass
or sterling clasps and cradle locks.
Quilted satin drawers,
with inner pockets of discovery,
of mystery,
and mundane,
of esoteric curiosities,
of tatted lavender secrets.

This box,
a grand reminder
of steamers past,
scuffed from exotic destinations,
gangplanks to spices,
broken seals and stamps,
the passport of its times.
Lost liners, Ionian ports,
sand and blood
from Bayonne, New Jersey.

A reminder of great dames of ships.
Mary and Elizabeth,
Isabella, Lusitania,
of galleys and junks
hauling lives and their treasures.
From rickshaws and camels,
elephants and caravans,
to towers in Shangri-La
to the temples of Katmandu,
to the dank ratty cellar
of your Uncle George.

As your Songs Sail Over

They heard the chisels sing
the granite whining
each wok-ching a tattoo
of mallet laid to a final skin.

Would they hear but footsteps?
Moist words and mumbled prayers…
for a while.
More that the pule of the wind
patter-slam of rain,
squeaky buggy wheel,
squawk of petulant child.

We’d hear sandblasted angels,
Mary’s, six pointed stars, ankhs,
infinity loops and nicknames,
portraits and pithy lines,
witty poems laid down.

As songs sail over us…
in dirges, carols
raps, and operas.
David says goodnight to Chet,
Lucy to Ricky
someone to something
that hasn’t happened yet.

We’d hear the bombs fall
and the coffins pop
like corks from the floods.
We’d hear all the sirens
the generations wail and complain.
We’d hear the peace down the way
when everything went awry…
then the sound of new lovers
and a new baby’s cry.

They heard the chisels sing
the granite whining
each wok-ching a tattoo
of mallet laid to a final skin.
as your songs sail over.

Hallowed Be

Standing on a carpet of grape leaves and vines
my saddle shoes scuffed, the left one untied.
Her arm hanging limp down the side of an overstuffed chair.
Blood red nails nearly in the ashtray
piled with stubbed out Chesterfields,
lipsticked butts, each paler than the next,
a rock glass of bourbon
glistening in the ember’s light,
the fire nearly as dead - asleep as she.

*

Standing on a carpet in the cold blue of dawn
winter glistening through century old windows
their panes L’ed in fresh snow
over etchings of frost.
“Mommy, what is Currier and Ives?
Shush my darling, mommy is dreaming.”
Legs akimbo, high thighed,
revealed in repose,
still in her uniform,
her tips on the bedside table
separated for me.
Silver Certificates
and a stack of Mercury dimes.
Two Liberty dollars and a buffalo nickel.

*

Standing in a carpet of grass,
wind soughing
and surging as a March wind does.
“Mommy, who’s Jim Beam?
An old friend baby boy, let me sleep.”
Her blood red nails, her stubborn pride
glistening in the ember’s light,
in the starlit palm of my hand,
in the rock glasses each of us held.
One with Jim Beam
the other with her ashes, her dreams.

 

Thames Head

I left the city behind me
in search of Thames Head.
A few hours drive and it was done.
A lovely hillock
with a trickle of a deep water spring.

These were my ancestor’s lands,
their murmurs lost
in the white noise of centuries,
vague conductions of spark,
clever sprites still arcing in my DNA.

In the heart of Dickens.
Just a couple hundred years.
Just before H.M. Queen Vickie
gained her chaste public eye.
It is there my hounds lost the scent.

They might have known of Austen or Darwin,
they might have worked as Cooks,
Carvers, Brewers, or Bakers,
known Fletchers or Millers
honing their surname crafts.

I drank deep of these hills,
sipping from Thames Head
of Romans and Norseman,
of Druid and the Angle’s blood.

My cells are but drops
in this ocean of Britannia.
Long live Odin, Augustus,
and the chieftains of Gaul.

Lettershaper

Stories rolled,
effortlessly lolling
from her acerbic tongue.
It was something in the attitude,
something of the angled shine
a selective blur,
a garish voice,
trolling with a chummy hook,
the first bot fly emerging.

There was a sweet-sour taste,
a crisp dill pickle,
molasses with a sharp brown mustard,
and a pungent bite of bile.
A frank slap to her words,
a bit in those trenchant teeth.

I was riveted,
gawking at a gruesome roadside wreck.
A lookie-loo - wide eyed and aghast - grinning,
neuromancing,
looking for more and more.

When the Night was Young

I knew you when the night was young
and the corner boys
oozed with Hai Karate lime
glinting with chrome in the passing traffic.

We had the music to ourselves
as it came from every direction.
California folk and acid,
Starships and Zeppelins,
England still stealing our hearts.

We could drive anywhere,
The moon was just the beginning,
and the industry was steel,
we were invincible when the night was young.

I held your eyes on a dance floor
through nights that never ended,
whirling and strobing
each pulse of the music
surging through our smiles.

I knew you
when the world was a yellow brick road,
hidden neath the pot holes,
the greasy skin of the city
scissored sweet between the sheets
when the night was young.