- Portfolio 2009
A Small Selection of Poems
The Fun is Just Beginning
Might as well relax
because the world
has become undone.
Regis Philbin and Kelly
fight on the telly --
the smelly under belly
of toxic assets in zombie banks --
Tyra Banks, Jessica Simpson,
Oprah and Britney Spears
defending their weight gains
as Lindsay Lohan defends her loses
as adroitly as General Motors
“does in” Detroit.
We must anoint ourselves
our own bosses,
fly on private jets
and secure
necessary fame
on the back page of the tabloids
to feed the fast food dreams
of the hoi polloi.
So, relax. Take a vicodin.
Swim some laps
and take a hit from your bong.
Its OK. Really.
We’re all sinners singing
the same Youtube song.
Blondes smiling from the cover
of every magazine firing shrapnel
killing the innocent in all of us.
As tanks move from Iraq
to Afghanistan.
-- the man on the street
so slim, so metro sexual
in sleek monochromatic Calvin Kleins --
as big bail outs
define
a new design for living.
Who cares? Its all about sex anyway.
So, relax.
It will be OK.
Just save your money
for yesterday
because tomorrow
may never come.
The world has become undone
and the fun is just beginning.
A One Way Conversation with the Arbiter of Taste
James, if you please, show the gentleman in
For he obviously wants something.
I must at least give him
the opportunity to hear what I have to say.
Good day, sir. Please do sit down.
Now, Sir, I have read your materials
And I must say that the problem, Sir
Is that you have no royalty in your blood.
Your face has that ruddy
Tragic mask of the perpetual
That very coarseness of ambition
So characteristic of most Americans,
That people of my birth
Find so distasteful.
Your vulgarity offends me.
I have empathy for the plight
That one faces in your position.
But, I have no patience
For your beggarly face
So, lace Irish red
Or for your inherent dread
Of anything resembling hard work.
We of my class
Did not achieve this status
Merely through grace.
It took almost Machiavellian
Strategies to overcome obstacles
That would have made you
Wet your pants at the mere mention
Of but one.
You are the son
Of illiterates
And while you have attended
To your reading
There is no possible way
That you can overcome
Your lack of breeding.
Therefore, do not visit me again.
Do not request support
For artistic activities
That have no art
Nor for art that has no heart.
Your empty gestures
Upon the canvas –
Your feeble movements
Upon the stage –
Your forced motifs
In the rock based classical music
You purportedly compose –
Your vacuous music videos –
The way you shake your ass –
Oh, lord, I could go on.
But, please do forgive me
If I now request that you leave
My presence once and for all.
You are an unfortunate fellow.
I value kindness above all,
But I do not suffer fools gladly.
And my tolerance for bad art
Is null.
Your own work does not offend me -
It merely bores me
And that is the greater offence.
So, please sir, take your leave.
Or, I shall have you removed
By James henceforth.
Good day, Sir.
I bid you well –
Even as I secretly wish
That you and all your kind
Would rot in hell.
James, please come into the room!
Be gone, sir from my sight.
Yes, now. Be gone.
Be gone. Be gone. Be gone.
Now, James, could you remind me please
About what my wife told me about
Our dinner plans for this evening?
Avocado Mon Ami
What does a Hass Avocado
do at night?
Does it seek refuge
in some dark
refrigerated space?
Or does it reside in its
crowded store display
to soften in spite of its
tenuous grasp upon life?
When still dark and hard
held in the palm of the hand
it reminds one of a grenade --
Iwo Jima, WWII,
the Greatest Generation
and Frank Sinatra
singing at the Paramount --
a knife, a fork, a bottle and a cork --
that’s New York.
Or is it mashed like Mexico
into green mush
with Tabasco sauce and salsa
dancing a meringue
in the grocery store aisles
while rats lurk about
seeking more pungent odors?
Mine sits simply
on my table top
ripening in the scintillating
Texas summer sun
shining through my kitchen window.
When it is ready
I will eat it with delight --
peeled, sliced and drenched
in olive oil alongside
a good French bread,
Provolone cheese
and Law & Order on TV
be it day or night.
Silent Bells
In the night wind
there are not so distant bells
alarming one
to a presence
that just eludes a sense
of normal hearing --
a quiet so profound
as to be beyond silence.
A mind at peace --
a being whole,
complete attention focused
in great effort to hear
the echo of those bells
that rhyme and resonate with each other
leaving harmony
in place of a discord --
where anxious desire
rode hard like the devil
beating his horse --
riding, riding, riding
toward something
that could never be reached
and the clatter of hooves
made true hearing
all but impossible.
Gently Down the Stream
Needing affection
they move
close to me
seeking my
sympathetic body warmth.
I am perplexed
by the action
but, give way
needing the self same
thing myself.
Then, they retreat
once more
into cold indifference --
needs met
now desiring more than God
to be independent,
no strings attached, God forbid.
I bid the warm moment
adieu --
knowing that I myself
seek no attachment
other than that momentary
affirmation of self
that assures me
that I do indeed exist.
And so it goes on
day to day
the inward and the outward
taking of breath --
first hot, then cold --
seeking, then not seeking,
knowing, then not knowing.
Unlearning as we go
merrily, merrily
gently down the stream
and deeper and deeper
into a dream
we have never
dreamed before.
Partners in the Losers Hall of Fame
Partners,
we were for a time
attached to the same tether –
not quite like Picasso and Braque
more like Martin & Lewis --
or descending even further
into the treasure trove
of great allegiances --
the leather-loving Sigfried & Roy.
The alloy of our attachment
not sexual or artistic
but simply practical
combined with a mutual need
to allay a total descent
into madness, poverty and a desire
to let loose of the rope
of life completely.
Such was our fate together.
And I must say, we made
the best of it – much like
Laurel & Hardy --
loving yet antagonistic
and resisting homosexual allusions
yet, not even so successful
as a team as Abbott & Costello
nor as graceful as Adele
& Fred Astaire.
Our ascent up the Stairway to Paradise
blocked by a persistent
attachment to failure and the
enjoyment of the low life
pleasures associated with
drink, drugs and casual sex
with whomever happened to
be walking our way that day.
Our lives hexed by demons
passed on by parents --
their own unions incomplete --
their own hopes and wants
stunted.
And so you and I smoke
our blunts and drink
stiff alcohol
in the hope that our innards
will land forever intermingled
and pickled in formaldehyde
to reside to the end of time
in the Loser’s Hall of Fame.
The Muse
I have observed with great
care,
your various get-ups and guises.
I have watched with some
amusement,
the myriad variations upon your
hair –
first, raven black, then brown,
then red –
now long, now short, then
in between.
Your jeans always tight,
but in various lengths
from long to Capri to short -
low slung or riding high.
I have even had the bright
pleasure
of seeing you hiding
in an elegant dress or two -
an enchanting design – the dress -
and one that most becomes you.
I have been a willing
listener
to your constant blather
about this or that fad diet –
your determination to quit smoking -
your on and off the wagon
declarations of a new sobriety.
Yet, you remain the soubrette -
the frivolous coquette -
the perpetual ingénue
and I am more charmed
than alarmed
by your continual experimentation
with your outward appearance
grandly coupled with your deepening
awareness
of the glorious creature within.
It would be a sin
not to care for you
but just a little.
The trick of course
is not to fall in love
for that might provide
occasion for remorse -
you being more a source of inspiration than any
palpable thing.
Still, I am tempted to
have a fling –
if only out of some great
curiosity to come in close
contact with that
special kind of madness
that I know I could
only experience with you.
The Cad
He sat at the bar sipping
a Miller Lite out of a brown bottle
eating a sliced avocado
drenched in olive oil on a bone china plate.
He looked quite elegant
in a sharp slate gray shark skin suit,
crisp white shirt
and gray silk tie with subtly placed
roses to add a bit of color to the scheme.
He seemed all of a piece
and quite at ease
in the middle of a sunny, brisk
spring afternoon.
Few could have guessed that
he had no real occupation
and that he lived a sycophantic
kind of leech-like existence
living off the wealth of ladies
who had far too much leisure time
and husbands who were far too busy
making money to pay them much
attention or any real mind.
He had that air about him
that stirred both envy and contempt.
Just looking at him made one feel
slimy and unkempt
and yet somehow superior.
One needed to cast him
in an inferior role
because he threatened one’s
very tenuous grasp – one’s control --
over the very thin strands
that held a badly frayed life together.
What, after all, was I doing there
in the middle of a workday afternoon?
Why was I not at the office?
What was becoming of me?
This man sitting there --
so obviously enjoying himself
shook me to the very foundation
of my nouveau puritanical, politically correct
so-called liberal upright American belief
that there was something evil
about drinking a beer
and having a bit of fun
in the middle of the fucking afternoon
for God’s sake.
Was I losing my grip?
What would my wife say?
What would my children think?
What if I stumbled home at 10 PM
that evening stinking of beer
and cigarettes and the foul scent
of some sleazy trollop
that I had picked up and fucked
in some slimy motel
just before slinking home like some criminal?
These thoughts crossed my mind
just as the man in the gray suit
took his last bite of avocado --
his last sip of beer
and walked out of the bar
looking quite happy and content.
I ordered a double Martini,
lit up a Camel cigarette
and winked at the barmaid.
We knew what he was up to –
we knew where he was going --
the cad.
The Most Deserving of All
Above all
inspiration is required --
that daily desire
to place bed warmed feet
upon a cold floor in morning
to arise
and once more light
that inner fire
that will carry us
through to that next moment
of darkness --
the retreat from a world
that often seems to stand
against us –
the clamor of empty voices
rising in a chorus of protest --
each one of those cries escaping
from a similar bed
with similar desires
each one shouting to be heard
above the herd.
And all are deserving.
But, for the sake of sanity,
each one of us must consider
ourselves
to be
the most deserving of all.
Mother and Son
We’re all dancing
on the edge of a dime.
And in times
of near disaster
nothing defines the meaning
of life
more clearly
than a beautiful mother and son --
the perpetuation of good
things done in past
and hopefully future --
even as we become undone
by lacking leaders
we can resist receding
into despair
knowing that
that kind of love
still exists.
Old Cat Eyes
An old Tomcat
marbles high and low
still intact,
secure as I saunter in --
no cataracts --
no fear of heart attack --
the scent of her
lingers on the stoop
of the back door --
her early slink a shadow still there.
I, seeking to suck the sweets
of sweet philosophy
and to suckle the sacks
that have the potential
to provide a milky beverage --
my main leverage a knowledge
gained from years of catting around.
Leavened by the wisdom
of graying whiskers
avoiding the whispers
of well meaning friends
who envy my still sleek mane
and ability to tame
the female of the species --
make her purr in the presence
of my lion-like liquid tongue
and steely leer
that never fails to get
the cat’s meow
and have her feline fur
tickling my genitals
as I lock her cat eyes in mine.
Two to Four
From two to four
I am yours.
My being absorbs
every tender thing
you do.
The sound of your voice --
whether loud or soft --
never escapes my ear.
The small movements
of your hands – so distinct –
in motions of distress
and happiness
mirror quite admirably
the minute palpitations
of that large pumping
ventricle so close
to my heart.
Your eyes
quite remarkable
on their own – enhanced
by black mascara expertly applied
lend mystery
to your down to earth
almost plain Jane practicality.
I can hear your voice
telling me what to do
and me willing
to do your bidding --
but only from two to four.
Because while I
adore you
and make myself
your prisoner
for a short time --
my quest for the sublime,
the ineffable, the unknowable --
make me far too mercurial
for a woman such as yourself.
Still, it contents me
greatly and gives me
hope and a sense
of lost desire
to find you here alone
at this hour
and know that I can have
you and love you
even if
it is only
from two to four.
The Most Terrifying Thing of All
Now, would perhaps
be a good time
to tell you
that I love you.
Do I love you
as a father might
love a daughter?
Yes.
Do I love you
as a lover loves
a lover?
Yes.
Do I love you
as a son loves
his mother?
Yes.
I say yes
to all these questions
because in you
I see all things.
I see myself.
I see my failings.
I see my success.
I see the very long
and hard hill I have climbed
to reach this place
where I can love you
and expect nothing in return.
Oh, there have been days
when I have been hurt
by your indifference.
I have returned that indifference
with my own – or maybe
I started it.
There have been times
of intense dislike --
a desire to dismiss you
as just another
self-centered little beast --
so arrogant, so knowing,
so ignorant of anything
outside your busy little tribe –
those whom you emulate
and pretend to be one of –
even as you stand alone.
I have dissected
bisected, destroyed
and put you back
together again.
Yet, you remain
a puzzle –
an amazing jumble
of pieces and parts
that don’t add up.
I have wanted to
walk away.
I have tried.
Yet, some unknown force
brings me back
and ties me to you.
My fascination
with your face --
my attention
to every gesture
you make --
every small fluctuation
of your weight.
I have tried to penetrate
your eyes
to see if for one
brief moment you will
look directly into mine
as if to say
“I love you.”
I have waited
and now the moment
has come --
not for you to love me
but, for me
to simply say
I give up.
I give in.
I love you.
And I know
in every fiber of my being
that the love I feel
is not a sin
but, a supreme joy
and that I
am not just a boy
who loves a girl.
But, a man
who loves a woman
and that woman
is you.
I love you.
And that is
the most terrifying thing of all.
-