Pupa

Roads move us

from destination to destination

with minimal deviation.

We acclimate to ebbs

of time and traffic,

traveling by cocoon,

never emerging the butterfly-

we retain our larval form.

With No Tether

"Did you see the old guy walking up and down the block?" she said.

I haven't. Should I?

"Go to the window and look."

It took me a moment to see who she was talking about. There was the

usual cast of surfers, drunks, and yoga moms walking up and down 

the street during the early afternoon. When I saw him I knew who she

was talking about. He was tall with a slight stoop that gave away his 

age. His hair was a dome of gray while his face was sprinkled with 

stubble a day or two old. Each step moved him forward in a stilted 

shuffle. He stood in front of the window with his back faced to us as

he gazed out at the people on the beach. Sky blue shirt and khaki pants

hung off him with a little room to spare. A plane with a banner advertising

beer flew overhead as his head tilted to the side, as if to read it better.

His gaze moved downward to his feet as he turned around. I walked

behind my desk and sat down. I saw his hand reach for the door.

"Hello." he said.

"What can I do for you sir?"

"Have you seen Barbara?" His eyes searched me, hoping I had the answer.

"I'm not sure I know Barbara, Sir." I said.

"We...we came out here years ago when we first met. It was different then.

There weren't so many people around. The people that were around were

so nice. You could talk to anyone. I first saw her near the pier. She didn't

know me but she was beautiful. I'm not sure where she is. Have you seen

her?"

"What's her last name?"

"It's the same as mine. It's...it's..." his hands fumbled to his pockets, hoping

to find his wallet and ID. "I'm sorry. It's slipped my mind." A nervous laugh

escaped and hung heavy between us. 

"It's hot out there today. I was looking for Barbara. Her hair is long and brown

and she is very kind. We talked for hours that first day we met. I talked to God

out there when I was looking for her. He said she was alright. That she some

times worried about me. I told him to tell her to not worry. That it's ok. I'm

still here and I'm doing the best I can." 

I could hear her voice in the back office speaking in a hushed tone. 

I heard the hard plastic receiver come to rest. I looked back at her, her

lips were pursed and she nodded at me. He leaned against the top of the desk

and looked out the window.

"I drove so far to get here. But I had to get here today to find her. I hope she's

not worried. That's the last thing I'd want, is for her to be worried. That's just

no way to be."

I saw the shadows outside the window get closer. They came into view of the 

window as they opened the door. He turned his head slowly at the uniformed

men as they walked in together. 

"Hi, boys. Are you here to help me find Barbara?" he said.

One of them looked no more than 25 said "Yes, we are. First, you need to

come outside with us because we know she's not in here." His face lit up

and said "I know. This young man has no idea who she is. I'm glad you do."

The older of the two men leaned over and looked at me, "How long has he

been here?" 

"Not long at all." I said.

"We got a call from here as well as some other local businesses about him.

He seems harmless but we'll make sure we get him to where he needs to be."

They walked out with him in arm. 

After they had left she walked out from the back office.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I had to call them. The guy was just creeping

me out. Didn't you feel?" she said.

I looked at her and thought for a moment, "I just hope he finds Barbara." 

Out There --->

What ever joy

there is

is found out there,

not locked away

in small rooms

waiting to

get out.

The Creation of - - - - -

--------------Space is the condition
between us.----------------It marks
-----------emotion.----We tolerate-
--it--------------------------------------
-----as-best-we-can.---We--create
it-be-----------------------------cause
we need-----------------------------it.
Space has always been-------------
a necessary----------------------------
in----------------------------------------
--vention.------------------------------
------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------

It fills everything---------------------

------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------

and yet---------------------------------

------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------it

never-----------------------------------

------------------------------------------

needed us-----------------------------

------------------------------------------

to create-------------------------------

------------------------------------------

----------------------------------------it.

tu eres

Passion without end


Nerves feeling sensation


Skin always tingling


Permanent euphoria


Faucet always on


Candle that outlasts the cake


Volume all the way up

K /// NO /// W

WHAT I KNOW


             I CAN'T FORGET


WHAT I FORGET


             I CAN'T KNOW

What It Means

You dreamt you were walking into the Earth.


The path of descent was lit by unknown hands


guiding you further as your curiosity would allow.


You told me that after hours upon hours of walking


the path opened up wide, a chasm bigger than any


space that could be known. A beautiful forest sat 


still within these deep reaches.You moved forward, 


observing whether or not it was inhabited. Branches 


and leaves bore an uneasy stillness. You walked 


to the edge at which is began, your hands reached 


and touched the ancient trunk. It felt like hardened 


rock. It must be a fluke you thought. You touched


the one next to it, feeling for the warmth of life.


Nothing. Just hard permanence. It went on like this


until you realized the forest was petrified. Nothing


moved. Nothing could. Only you, moving in awed


wonder at what had been shown.

Vacation

We never went on vacation like most other families did when I was growing up.
I never thought about it much as a child. We never took long family trips in the
summer to Yosemite, Big Bear, or any places like that. We rarely ever left the 
suburban sprawl that we called home. Dad worked and worked, he worked two
jobs to get us by. A vacation for him meant having a full weekend without having
to be at either job. Even so, he would still be working around the house, fixing 
things, getting the recycling together, mowing the lawn. We would see our family
every now and then at parties where the kids would hang out together as all the 
men would get drunk on beer and talk about work, money and everyone back 
home. I don't know how much I missed out on, I wonder if it would have changed
me. I rarely ever take vacations, even now as an adult. The times I have taken 
vacations have tended to be working ones. There is too much to do. A vacation 
would only take time away from my work. 


There were a few times growing up when we visited our family back in the home
country, the one my parents left. I never really got to know my father's parents. 
My mother's parents I know somewhat. I want to, I need to. The distance between
here and there gapes wide inside me. The old country is nothing like here, a small
backwoods town in a second world country. The next time I go back it still won't
be a vacation, at least not in my mind. The weight of history, of reconnection is a
necessary task unto itself. That's not a vacation. I wonder how others do it, how 
they can manage vacations and not enter financial ruin. Some of us might be lucky,
others- not so much. 


I dream about leaving. Not just home, everything. Packing up one small bag and 
going somewhere. I would tell no one, I would disappear as best as I could. I'm
sure that sounds selfish, but if I could, I would. It might not be forever, just for a 
time. Time to be alone, to see things as they truly are in all their cruelty and beauty.
There is always much of both. It would mean freedom, freedom of staggering 
proportions, freedom of unbridled anxiety, freedom to flourish and fail as much
as I am willing to allow. I suppose that is my idea of a vacation. 

A bankrupt moral economy.

She Looked Like Marilyn (Draft 1)

She held the door open for her friend as they walked into the office. 

Her friend was hunched over and moved slowly with her cane. After

her friend was inside, she closed the door. "Would you mind if we 

wait here?" she said. I told her it was no problem. The theatre wasn't

going to be open for another 20 minutes or so. 

"I hope you don't mind us waiting in here with you." Her hair was 

done in the same way Marilyn Monroe had in the movie "The Seven

Year Itch". Everyone knows that movie or at least the scene where

her white dress billows up around her over a vent in the street. Unlike 

Marilyn, she wasn't wearing a white dress, though her blouse was 

white. Her face was framed by glasses too large for her face. She

must have been very beautiful when she was younger. Even though

beauty fades, traces of it linger on. 

Her friend was resting comfortably in the overstuffed red velvet chair.

She could have sat down but instead was looking at the pictures on 

the wall. Some of them have been on display longer than I've been alive.

That's part of the charm of working in a place as old as this theatre. 

She turned to me as she pointed towards a black and white picture of 

a man playing sax. "Do you know who that is?" I told her I didn't.

"That's Stan Getz. I was here the night that picture was taken. It was

a wonderful performance. He had just put out an album with a young

brazilian guitarist. The guitarists wife sang a couple of songs on the

record as well. The music was heavenly. Have you heard the record

I'm talking about? It was called Getz/Gilberto."

I thought about it for a moment. I remember my dad would play old

jazz records in the house when I was growing up. The name was 

familiar enough. I was certain I had heard the album she was talking

about. I told her I wasn't entirely sure.

"You should listen to it some time. It's a very romantic album."

She looked across the pictures on the wall but her eyes always

came back to rest on that picture. 

"Do you see the carnation on his lapel?" she asked. I stood up

from behind the desk to take a better look. Sure enough, there

was a white carnation on his lapel. I told her I had never noticed

that before. She smiled. "I gave that to him."

"I would go see him play at The Lighthouse all the time back then.

He was always so handsome. After seeing me at a few performances

he came up to me and introduced himself between sets. I couldn't 

believe he had noticed me. He told me that he was going to be doing

a theatre show in a few weeks and that he would like to see me there

and to come by early. I made sure to be there early to see him. When

I walked up I saw him standing in the alley with the rest of the group.

As soon as he saw me he walked over and told the band he would

be back. I ad brought along a white carnation from my mother's garden.

When he saw it in my hand he asked me what it was for. I told him

it was for him to wear at the concert. He smiled and asked if I was 

going to pin it on him. I remember feeling my cheeks grow fiery hot.

Once I pinned the carnation to his lapel he came in closer and said

we should go have a drink together."

I looked over and saw that her friend had practically fallen asleep

in the overstuffed chair. I didn't blame her. If I was that old and 

in that comfortable of a chair I would probably do the same thing.

"We walked over to this small bar that used to be around the corner

from here. There were only a few other people in there beside us. 

We settled into a small booth near the back. He told me all about 

Brazil and how lovely the people and the music there were. He 

spoke in a way that matched his playing. He looked at his watch

and said we needed to get going for the show. As we walked into

the street he took my hand and held it. His fingers locked with mine

and I squeezed it. We got to the ticket window and he told the girl

inside that I was his guest. He reached in and kissed me. Find me 

after the show he said."

"The girl had the usher take me in and sat me in the perfect place

to see the performance. They played marvelously that night. I 

couldn't help but think how handsome he looked as he played 

with the carnation on his lapel."

I looked at my watch and saw that we were about to open the

doors for seating.

"Ma'am. We're about to start seating. Would you like me to show

you to your seats?"

"That would be wonderful."

She helped her friend up as I held the door open for the two of

them. 

"We were beautiful once" she said.

The Condition

Speak plainly,

directly.

I couldn't sleep

at such a late

hour. I'm always

waking up

thinking of ruin,

of history 

remembered

and forgotten;

wars fought 

invisibly everyday.

The way the hand

hesitates as it reaches

for the door,

fingers curved 

around the brass knob.

If you leave me will you love me?

____

Foxhole Christian

The Lovely Lonely

Eyes reflect inner light 


better than any mirror. 

Walking the 405

Cigarette Butts.

Shredded tire rubber.

Dismembered Barbie dolls.

Pigeon wing.

Glass pipe.

Dying plant.

Dead plant.

Broken glass.

Broken glass.

Broken glass.

Broken hubcap.

Shattered tail light.

Beer can.

Miniature liquor bottle.

Bumper.

Violent wind.

Dead baby possum.

concentration has begun to erode 

focus is fading

how will you deal with it?

Memory From A Late Night

We'll never be 


this beautiful again.

Kindness

Chief sits silently next to me as he pours his light beer

into a tumbler filled with ice. I haven't heard him say

a word all night. He usually doesn't. Old Jenny sits 

next to him, talking enough for both of them. Her lips

curve  inward as each word escapes slightly mushed 
of sound or meaning. Chief motions to Stephanie 

at the other end of the bar. She brings over another

bottle and sets it in front of Jenny. "Thanks, Chief,"

she says. Her belly hangs in front of her large breasts

and rests against the bar. She keeps on talking. Chief

may or may not be listening. He sits there quietly, 

politely. The thinning gray hairs cling carefully to his

scalp like the survivors of a drawn out war. I try to 

make out what Jenny is saying. Only fragments of 

speech make it to my ears. The rest is drowned out

by the jukebox overhead, the sound of other voices

being honest for the first time all day. Chief looks 

down at his glass and then straight up, looking past

the entrance on the opposite side of the bar. I can see

Jenny's lips still moving. Her lips make me think of 

the mouth of a fish gasping in the air after  having 

been caught. She still breathes. She still talks. She 

has survived her bout out of the water. Chief slowly

comes down from the flattened cushion of the bar 

stool. "Goodbye, Chief! You take care. You be 

safe out there! You drive safe, ok?"she says. Her

eyes follow him as he makes his way towards the

door. Chief raises his right hand in a backward

wave that we see as he passes invisibly to everyone

else. Old Jenny moves into Chief's empty stool 

and looks at me. "What's your name, honey?"

I tell her my name and take a long pull from the 

bottle in front of me. She continues the story she

must have been telling all night. She's been divorced,

cheated on, heard people condemning her sister

for marrying a black man. I look at her cropped hair

closely, her eyes sitting in her head like they are too

tired to stay open. The lines in her face tell her story

better than her words. I feel her hand touch my 

shoulder, its weight resting there, a space crossed

only by the closest of relations. I look in her eyes

and nod my head. The juke box goes quiet

and I excuse myself to use the restroom. "Ok,

honey." She grabs her nearly empty drink and
finishes it. She brings the one Chief bought for 
her closer. I stagger into the restroom and brace 
myself against the wall. I dry my hands and look 
into the mirror. It's late, it's a weeknight. I can see

the lines etching themselves slowly into my 

skin. More people call me 'Sir' than before.
The jukebox is back on when I walk out into the bar. 
Some reggae tune from a few years ago is playing 

overhead. I don't see Jenny. When I get to my 

stool her last empty has been cleared. The beer

Chief got for her sits on a coaster next to mine. 
It's still full. 

The Way Things Are

The way a flower opens its petals.

The way wind can slam a door closed.

The way lovers commune.

The way artists re-imagine life.

The way plants take root in cracks of concrete.

The way new land rises from the sea.

The way cars crash on roads late at night.

The way life is born.

The way we take pleasure.

The way we peer through windows.

The way silence must be filled.

The way all stories eventually end in loss.

The way we like the familiar.

The way we need answers.

The way ambiguity is.

The way some are always alone.

The way we can never experience the same moment.

The way obscurity toils.

The way we need to divide.

The way we cannot find peace.

The way happiness is an open-ended answer.

The way days end.

The way a body decays .

The way the world is impartial.

The way mad men tower over us.

The way voices speak all at once.

The way thought enters consciousness.

The way chemicals create reaction.

The way drink numbs.

The way nothing is enough.

The way that that could be.

The way they never took.

The way we never considered.

The way we do not.

The way fire burns.

The way ants march.

The way old books age.

The way past dulls in color.

The way smell triggers memory.

The way it used to be.

The way seasons dictate our lives.

The way belief believes.

The way no one has yet found.

The way grammar orders.

The way you hear this.

The way rain falls.

The way an umbrella opens.

The way the wind rattles windows.

The way you are.

The way a child grows.

The way some remain unchanged.

The way the world is.

The way everything must be.

The way we change.

The way we do not.

The way stones rest.

The way pebbles skip across a pond.

The way a blue orb appears in a black sky.

The way light from dead stars reach us.

The way this must seem.

The way things were.

When good Dogs die like Men.

Bleeding

All this blood


bleeds onto


the floor.

Rice Rocket Racer

We were friends in a past-life.

Those years are tattered shards of yellowing

paper. Our drifting ambitions

and increasing silence,

both accidental and intentional.

The bride looks beautiful.

I can think of only a time or two

when you wore a suit of any kind.

Have we been so lost in our pursuits

that we have lost the need

for each other? 

The tropical breeze blows 

from the digital image

of that afternoon.

I recognize no one 

in those pictures except

for you. We are guilty 

of the same thing. 

Though I would say

it seems like things

have turned out well

for you, old friend.

National Holiday

I sat by myself at the bar.


The bartender was busy checking his phone.


The only other person was an older man


sitting several stools down.


People were down by the waterfront


watching of fireworks blossom in the dark.


The man seemed to have been


there for hours. His head slouched


downward, as if his neck


could no longer bear its weight.


He stood without toppling over 


and stumbled into the street.


It was just the two of us.


I fidgeted with my phone,


the new nervous tick my generation 


has grown accustomed to. 


I finished my drink


and motioned for another.


Our exchange was primitive- 


marked only by the minimal


sounds needed to facilitate it.


I drank and wondered 


how I had become so alone.


It didn't matter.


It was only one evening.


I buzzed a mild electricity


after that last drink.


My feet led me home


as people flooded


the streets from the beach.


It was a calm exodus filled


with smiles, families


and the mild intoxication


celebration elicits.


They were a river 


flowing downstream,


I became the salmon


returning home to spawn,


but that night


even that would be denied.

Celestial Bodies

The Sun and the Moon are two fully

separate beings, yet

we speak of them as being


related like siblings,

cousins, or

lovers.


How funny it would

indeed be

were they all three.


Do they speak of us

in the same way?


Are we paired off

with the Moon?

The Sun?


Perhaps neither thinks

us worthy.


Instead they might have us

paired off with Venus,

maybe Mars.


And forget the Stars. No one

can ever get an answer from them.

Acceptance

It is hard for us to age


Our powers fade in a procession 


of loss. Lines cross skin


like new roads over fields. 


Eventually they become


boulevards and freeways.


Memory begins to fragment


if it is present at all.


Colors dull


no matter the prescription 


on the lenses.


This fading is a patina


gilding our lives


in measured increments.


Each prepares for the next. 


Each a necessary step


towards acceptance,


of loss,


of time, 


and ultimately-


a mutual fate


since time


immemorial.
______






Note: revised to current version on 7/7/12
2nd revision 7/16/12

dead end fragments

Empty the vessel and let the waters still.


Transitions


There is a specific voice I hear as I read these words.


Inner monologue reverberating in concave spaces.


Caught between influence and imitation;


between admiration and devotion.
____________


Rusted iron moves slowly at best.
_________________


Do fish frozen in a river die?


Do their bodies rot and float downstream in the thaw?


_______________


Black Winter
___


Whose mask am I wearing?
________


Dumb Dumb Dumb


the voice doesn't work


it doesn't work


chords frozen


still


it doesn't work


it won't work


Dumb Dumb Dumb
____


In case I love you


please turn away.


Leave.


Forget me.


Forget everything.


In case you love me back


come to me.