the silence broken by a cry,
cut short in mid-breath,
as if afraid of being heard,
soft and tender,
a kitten purr,
asleep and dreaming,
I will not wake her.

And the morning 

gives way, 
as a thought 

to a feeling. The middle 

of the day 
is an acoustical ceiling 
with cathedral rafters, 
pine scent clinging 

to the blistered studs,

a plum line marks nail gun, 
sundial in a 

pinch; quarter 
of three, quarter 

past already
last chance  
for cobwebs to dance
with sun motes, saw
dust in a belfry; 

that disco 

jew's harp 
jump and jive 

intro, bottle neck slide, 
Roundtree the morning's  
already a powdered

chalk scar 
on the floor 

of someone 
who died a lifetime 

before: You say 

drywall, I'm more 

sheet rock, 
the red rubber 
song ball, it's five 
o' clock. 

                                                                Hotel Negresco

Both sea and sky dream
                                            eye-white blue, and I
feel empty as these eggshells on my break-
fast plate.
                   On TV news, twelve people die--
a high-def fire, a bomb-blast pixel-fleck
from dire Afghanistan. . . .
                                                 I turn to see
two runners on the Promenade whose race
might be my higher self and I,
                                                      set free
as dogs unleashed that dream a master’s face
but never see it clearly,
                                           trusting scent
or intuition, knowing faintly, bent
on ecstasy, but
                            fawning and afraid.
So many times I roll my pant-legs, wade
in shallows.
                      I must find the pier and dive
in deep, be swallowed whole,
                                                      then rise, alive.

 

As the airplane ascends
higher and higher, he braces
for what's to come; clenched
palms, nervous sweat, jaws
 
chewing on mint gum to break
the buildup of pressure in his ears. 
One pop.  Two pops.  Silence. 
And then a reawakening of sound. 
 
The cabin lights up with voices. 
Laughter.  Humming.  Amens they
made it this far.  The pilot's greeting
booms like thunder as he predicts
 
the flight will be calm.  No threat
of turbulence ahead; no need for airbags. 
Just patience.  A few prayers. 
Crossed fingers when no one is watching.

I died among the lilies,
slumbering into the dust
they were beaten back
into by the hand of winter;
awaiting their revival in
some other realm; but I
would be anew in spring
some months before them;
and as winter waned and
spring washed the stain of
death from me, I awoke a
new person; and I only
hoped it wasn’t some
sweet dream to swallow
me whole before dropping
me to the ground like rocks
thrown into the perilous sea --
a streak of red shot the sky,
painting me in the lilt of lilies.

Before I’ve even considered the knife,
soil has pressed into the last pumpkin to be picked
the faint features of a face,
one that has been turned away from the sun
all growing season. Clods of dirt engraved the eyes,
the beginnings of a nose,
the space between ridges a mouth.
I should do what the garden suggests:
plant as best as I can.

_ this is the day they will tell you
how you will die:
four horses pulling you asunder,
a long knife in the night,
poison slipped into your coffee,
or maybe just a swift kick
that sends you off a cliff,
and into heaven or hell.  

hell is more likely,
a better mirror to this world
where demons are all well-groomed,
and boldly display
their MBAs and law degrees.
the market is always bottomed-out,
and the weight of all those numbers
tumble down upon your head
for all eternity.

_How out of touch I must be
that two and half years after
I find out that Derek Bailey
has died. And why should I
care when I only now and then
listen to his music, and I was
gleaning information about him
as I was essentially stealing
a couple of his albums?
I suppose I’m surprised-
I don’t know why; he was 75--
but he was only seventy-five
and I guess that when I am
trying to break bonds in
my own life, and feel drawn
to his crazy plucking.
Maybe it is that he had
carpal tunnel or so the doctors
(so foolish!) thought,
but it was really
motor neuron disease
and I have carpel tunnel
or so I  thought…
I didn’t think sleep apnea
was that big a deal
until Reggie White died.
And my chest pains
meant nothing until Nolan Ryan
decided to go to the hospital.  

And here I am listening
to Ballads and hoping
I can get through tomorrow
it being my wife’s birthday
and none of us are feeling well
None of us are very close
to okay.