Four Poems

...A summary


Who should be wrong
if not me, and wronged
if not me, and clamorous
like a bell tied to a rodeo
if not me, and succulent
if not watermelon and me,
and crying if not a guitar
left in the rain and rain
left in the desert
and me, or to put it

another way,

how did any of this happen
to seem strange
when there was no plan
or map to begin with,
just the dark
and groping, the light
and not knowing
how to listen to it

...Zither


I am not exactly the cherished finding of a scientist
after years of work and ridicule by the establishment.
Maybe ten percent that and seventy percent a misuse
of echolocation and my wife thought something was wrong with me
until she saw me cry, then she knew I wasn't a robot
but a man who'd hug her when she got sad.
If you look at stars long enough, you realize
how bad that is for your neck and go inside
and drink like a sane person, red wine or something
with a little ruefulness to it. That's one aspect
of being. Another is when you look at stars long enough,
you realize you can't look at stars too long,
or want to live with a rose growing out of your heart
more than you do in that moment. To bloom. I say that
as one of the worst gardens you'll ever run into
and one of the best car crashes to ever miss
when my mom made me baloney sandwiches
and the world seemed as small as her love put on a plate.
And despite what my wife thinks, I am a robot
and very very tired of wondering what it's like
to be human. Just don't tell me and spoil the surprise.

...Nourishment


Is it the memory
or the memory of the memory
we spend more time missing
the point of, is a thought

I've imagined
learning Morse code to send
in an old-fashioned way
across the Atlantic
to a man alone
in a booth on the edge of land
alone in the sea,

who takes down these messages,
burns them, adds the ashes
to his tea, or have I misunderstood
the purpose of language
and the importance of tea?

...I have trouble remembering the difference
..............between a proverb and an adage


Never a borrower or lender be
is impossible advice,
given that I don't own this flesh,
and the fire going inside it,
a tiny fire on a small hibachi,
enough to warm my hands
and heat up a few ideas,
will eventually burn
the whole place down.

I'm not saying to be alive
is to be an arsonist,
just that a hot dog
would be nice about now.

And a soul. I'd like a soul.
An essence that persists
in finding wool itchy
long after I'm ashes
and the need for clothes
if not love is gone.