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Scott Wiggerman's Poetry Pages

J o u r n a l s


 
 

I've been very fortunate to have published hundreds of poems in the past two decades, a small sampling of which are highlighted below.

Forthcoming: "giving thanks" will appear in the next Sonic Boom Journal. Texas Poetry Calendar 2019 has selected a sonnet, "Love," for its first post-Dos Gatos issue. Chiron Review has accepted two poems for its Fall 2018 issue, "Watching David Boudia's Speedo on the Olympics" and "End of Innocence," both golden shovels. Frogpond has accepted two haiku, "so she won't hear" and "weather vane shifts," for its next issue, as has Presence, "green light" and "rosary beads." "Canister Set, 1960s," a haibun, will appear in the next issue of Failed Haiku, and here's something different, "the last crane," a haiga, will appear in Akitsu Quarterly in fall.


Some recent online publications and links:

  • Four haiku--"grown men praying," "slow motion," "creaky street sign," and "my shadow"--at Chrysanthemum
  • "Eyes and Ears" and "Wingbeats," two sonnets, at Allegro Poetry
  • "The New Standard," "Dance of the Underwear," "Downtrodden," and "What We Mean When We think of Love" at Softblow
  • "People Like Us" at Contemporary Haibun Online
  • "Albuquerque, Gracias" at Haibun Today
  • "Miles to Go" at The Ghazal Page



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    One of three golden shovels--

    and a haibun too!

     


    The Whole World

          incorporating a Dickinson line (#657)

    A fist opens, the
    tight knuckles spreading
    like blossoms, wide,
    wider, but my
    black pupils narrow,
    can't keep up with hands

    that ache to
    flower, to gather
    the pollens of paradise.

     

     







     

     

     

    CNM's annual lit journal!

     


    A Small Theft

    I stole a spider today,
    removed it from it home,
    an empty pasta box under the sink.

    It could have been the mother
    of many children.
    It might have been a bachelor.
    Neither thought crossed my mind
    when I stole it away.
    It seemed an insignificant thing,
    though its eyes were full of spice
    and I spotted a patch of ink
    on its belly when I lifted it up
    in a wad of toilet paper.

    I considered flushing it.
    I considered smushing it.
    Those eyes stared at me
    with the burn of cayenne.

    I opened the door to the patio,
    where I intended to return it
    to where I imagined it belonged,
    as if I knew this spider's home
    better than the spider itself
    when I'm still looking for my own.

     

     







     

     

     

    Another golden shovel!

     


    Jumping Out of Bed Can Be Harmful to Your Health

          incorporating a Dickinson line (#1263)

    Sun breaks over the
    mountain. This is the morning's truth:
    easy hues of rose and amber. Must
    every sunrise stun and dazzle
    to be prized? Good should come gradually,

    like extra minutes from snooze control or
    the cautious drips of coffee into a poet: every
    moment should add to the moment. No man
    needs more than this truth to be--
    any more could blind.

     

     




     

     

     

    A ghazal, but of course!

     


    Borrowed Earth

          inspired by a Jim Bones' photograph

    Sunlight tiptoes in, and sands sweep across the kiva.
    We hear tumbleweeds dance and leap upon the kiva.

    The sky is squandered here, and spider webs, invisible.
    We breathe in dust, for rain does not weep into the kiva.

    These earthen walls soothe, smack of smoke and bones.
    Could we find true north from deep within the kiva?

    Grains of maize rooted in the chamber's floor.
    Ancestors honored: offerings to reap within the kiva.

    Long ago, spirits cropped up from this dense dirt.
    Rung by rung, the journey: steep, steep, up the kiva.

    Overhead, a world of witches, walkers, and powders.
    In the earth's belly, safe from their creep into the kiva.

    Dreams are palpable here, silent and ancient as pelts.
    How long have we been asleep inside the kiva?

     

     




     

     

     

    Two other haiku also published,

    "puckering clouds" and "wild rhubarb"!

     


    streetsweepers
    a clean break
    from the news

     

     


     

     

     

    Another ghazal,

    as well as "Calligraphy 101"

     


    Isle of the Blessed

          starting with a Dickinson line (#1760)

    Elysium is as far as to the very nearest room.
    A curtain is used to create a wall, the sheerest room.

    Years of drugs, although prescription, stickied his synapses.
    He cannot remember when his mind was the clearest room.

    Ask any two people--you won't get a match on paradise.
    Could be a chamber in heaven, or could be the queerest room.

    An old man wears a bib, drinks coffee from a sippy cup.
    It's true that the final one is always the austerest room.

    The relief of checking a watch: visiting hours are over.
    Stifled and restrained. Who is alive in the merest room?

    Can't take it with you--what's left can fit in a cardboard box.
    Petal by petal, roses fall in the insincerest room.

    When I have crossed the fields, traversed the quiet waters,
    should I feel blessed to lie inside this severest room?

     

     


     

     

     

    Another ghazal!

     


    Passing of the Matriarch

          starting with a Dickinson line (#995)

    This was in the white of the year
    when August took its bite of the year.

    The sun scoured our pebbled hopes,
    left no traces of blight on the year.

    Bark peeled and leaves left like phantoms;
    something was not right with the year.

    Scorpions entered our gray homes,
    offered little fight through the year.

    We counted our tears like savings,
    bankrupt as the night of the year.

    Prayers made thuds in the crackled earth.
    Muscles lost their might through the year.

    Each day we wallowed in sorrow,
    staggered through this plight on the year.

    Absence, palpable as razors,
    devoured all delight from the year.

    Death was a spell lifted at last,
    possibly the height of the year.

     

     




     

     

     

    Posted on New Verse News
    on June 11, 2017

     


    Gay Pride

    May we bike a wide expanse of untidy sands,
    of outliers and isles of desert brush.

    May we ride and ride, our eyes primed
    to an iota of wild, a mite of wine

    among the tumbleweeds and idle browns:
    a bind of thriving cacti. Divine!

    May we smile and find a vital prize,
    a sign in the uncivilized silence,

    a blooming lighthouse, a riot of pink fire,
    our desired life, our private tribe.

    May we ride inspired while our kind expires.
    May we rise above the spineless of these times.

     

     




     

     

     

     


    Speaking to the Snake

    I only stayed for the children.
    Layered in too many clothes,
    I wanted to take off
    everything, down to the bone.
    I longed for solitude, far
    from husbands, lovers,
    kids--but I told no one.
    Deserts beckoned, promising
    meaning in emptiness,
    if only I could go there,
    but I stayed, I stayed,
    my mouth stuffed with Eden.

     

     




     

     

     

    This is a special issue (#25)
    of Assaracus: A Journal of Gay Poetry

     


    Escape

          starting with a Dickinson line (#508)

    I'm ceded. I've stopped being theirs.
    Now meeting dreams, not seeing theirs.

    Unfettered of iron shackles,
    I wasted life's days fleeing theirs.

    Across the wide river I swim.
    Is my freedom foreseeing theirs?

    Out from shadows, into the light.
    My own god, refereeing theirs.

    In the clouds I soar from doctrine.
    Choice is mine; disagreeing, theirs.

    Sing the scars of my naked self.
    My truth: no guaranteeing theirs.

     

     



     

     

     

    Also includes another haiku,
    "November leaves"

     


    snakeskin
    the past left for others
    to uncover

     

     



     

     

     

    Also includes my sonnet,
    "Couldn't Slow Down If I Tried (And I Tried)"

     


    In One Ear, Out the Other

    A nervous day. Caffeine and allergy
    meds tramping through the blood. A chug, a jolt,
    a lightning strike beneath the skin--whee! whee!
    a rollercoaster ride. A jumpy colt
    stamps, bucks, my head its small corral. Clear skies
    don't help. A moon appears above the fence,
    incongruous and plump. A pigeon flies
    in circles like a scavenger. A sense
    of wrong in every sight, in every thump
    and pulse. I've picked the same damned scab again.
    My foot taps like a code. An itch, a bump,
    an edge--and whittled down by teeth, my pen.
    No sleep tonight, no pardon will be found.
    Shrill crickets rouse to my internal sound.

     

     

     

     

     

     


    The Pity of War

          a golden shovel
          incorporating a Basho haiku

    It comes to an end, summer,
    the last sigh of green grasses

    and fresh fruit--all
    those months, all that
    production, and what remains?

    Fodder for wind, particles of
    compost, warriors'
    nightmares lost as their dreams.

     

     




     

     

     

     


    Another Night at the Maverick Inn

    I can no longer tell whether they're
    arguing or fucking or both,
    their earth-thirsty interludes
    of growls and grunts and slurs
    battering the wall between our rooms.
    Better, I guess, than guests
    with blaring infomercials or insipid
    laugh tracks, but I want to sleep.
    Why can't motel walls
    be insulated enough to avoid
    every sudsy stream of piss,
    every thrusting headboard bang?
    Are these walls made of the same
    toilet paper I've been hearing
    roll off its spindle each night
    at one a.m., and again at four?
    I've got the AC cranked,
    the squeaky ceiling fan whirring,
    but nothing's loud enough
    to drown out the randy--or angry--
    couple, except when the train
    thunders by, shrieking,
    the conductor's sadism let loose.
    Of course, the drapes don't close
    entirely on either of the windows,
    the sink has a continual drip,
    and the pillows are lumpy
    as biscuits and country gravy--
    much that same gray color too.
    Yet when I visit Alpine,
    there's no other place
    I'd rather stay. The truth is,
    I don't sleep much better at home.

     

     




     

     

     

    Also includes my husband's poem,
    "A Step Beyond Silence"

     


    The Possibilities

    The lights were dim when I arrived,
    Dr. S. so close I could smell
    cigarettes emanating from his pores.
    No one in the office but us. No nurse--
    I had to swab the blood from my leg.
    I watched his forearms, dark hair
    swirling over the tight latex gloves.
    He eased the knife through flesh
    like a layer of seal blubber.
    Can you feel it?

    That was the year Disney's
    The Little Mermaid came out on video.
    My red-haired niece in Mesa
    was into both Ariel and sharks.
    She hated when I called her Ursula--NO, Ariel!--
    but believed I'd been bitten by a shark
    when she saw me change the dressing.

    The hum of the fluorescent bulbs overhead.
    A three-inch circle around the mole on my thigh.
    Better here than some bony part.
    The slow sewing of the stitches.
    The sucking sounds of my flip-flops on asphalt.
    I walked back to the car as if returning
    home from a bad date, imagined
    Dr. S. lighting up once I left.

    Long before my niece's parents divorced, before
    my parents moved there--different cancers--
    the Phoenix desert called out,
    a shark bite as easy to believe
    as melanoma, as intimacy
    with a doctor, as becoming a mermaid.

     

     




     

     

     

    Also includes two other erasures,
    "Marriage: A Unique Relationship"
    and "The Rest of the Story."

     


    Across the Sky

     

     





     

     

     

    Also includes two other poems,
    "The Old Familiar" and "Shrinking World Theory,"
    a ghazal.

     


    Why He Doesn't Want Me to Watch Dexter

    Watch out!
    Two dead mice.
    See how they lie like commas
    on the concrete sidewalk,
    small enough to fit into a palm?
    Not mauled, perhaps poisoned:
    the park is sprayed weekly
    with God-knows-what.
    Close as yin-yang.
    (I see you thinking,
    Please don't name them
    Yin and Yang.)
    Did they seek solace in each other?
    See how they nearly hug?
    As if arranged there
    for some unknown purpose.
    No body parts missing,
    no carving knife.
    See those tiny ears,
    those tiny digits?
    Pay more attention.
    You almost stepped on them.
    When we get home,
    we'll re-enact the scene:
    Curl up,
    grow fur,
    be still.

     

     





     

     

     

     


    what binds us

    a single blossom left

    on the crepe myrtle


     

     




     

     

     

    Also includes three other sonnets,
    "Blue Heron," A Perfect Day," and "Too Brief"

     


    Sentry

    I heard them first--their quirky squawks--before
    I saw the parrots. Green as jungles, fresh

    as spring desire, their feathers rich and brash,
    so unforeseen, I did a double-take.

    So green on green, it took a stroke of luck
    to spot these three among the leaves, but then

    the telltale beaks, the doll-like eyes, the din
    of vibrant colors. Where'd they been the last

    ten months? And could I possibly have missed
    such flash each day? I savor the moment,

    aware it might soon fly away. I want
    to turn virescent: blend into the green

    as long as time allows. To stand alone,
    remain a hidden sentry, wait for more.

     

     





     

     

     

    Also includes my poems
    "Hide and Seek" and "The Illustrated Man"

     


    Nuptials

          starting with a Dickinson line (#1116)

    There is another loneliness that many die without.
    Sixty-four years of trying--but you could fly without!

    Why does Daddy's disapproval come as such a shock?
    Your breath so shallow: a rattle, with; a sigh, without.

    So you're a "fool" for wanting to marry? Then be a fool.
    Don't let his dour mood influence your own. Defy without!

    For sixteen years I've been a burr digging in his boot.
    Uncomfortable with me, yet somehow awry without.

    I do not feel estranged, for I've never been a part.
    You've had too many years with--it's time to try without.

    Don't let your father spade a hole in your full heart.
    You're not your old man, you're mine, so do not cry without.

    We're showered with congratulations, a flood of love.
    He's the only one, the voice of drought. Reply with, "Out"!

     

     


     

     

     

     


    Summertime

    The willow yellows with each passing day.
    Only July, too early for these leaves
    to change their hues, yet cypress needles splay
    beneath canopies gone to rust, and sheaves
    of bark from sycamores curl at the trail.
    The purple horsemint now is gray, and green
    has faded from the field, wheat-colored, frail.
    The drought is real, but not unforeseen
    in Texas: miles of sky and not a speck
    of cloud, just waves of heat rising like vines
    once did--before withering. Mud and dreck,
    the lake's down to nothing. Mosquitoes whine.
    Even the water fowl seek shade. This park
    too sere for the start of a long dry arc.

     

     



     

     

     

    Also includes my sonnet,
    "Theory of Relativity"

     


    Texas Zen

    The chinaberry leaves have yellowed, but
    no other leaves have changed: dull browns, weak greens--
    no purples, reds, or golds--the same old rut
    we've seen for months, and now November leans
    its chilly bones on window panes that fog
    with every breath, a sign we're still alive
    on days we have our doubts. If young I'd blog
    about the trees, the reasons to contrive
    a palette neither brown nor green, one full
    of vibrant northern colors--Michigan,
    New England--where fall is a spectacle,
    the leach of chlorophyll, the origin
    of orange, crimson--leaves heading toward death.
    At this cold pane, I tally every breath.

     

     



     

     

     

     


    bits of kite

    flapping high in an oak

    my nerves on edge


     

     



     

     

     

    Also includes my ghazal,
    "Wife and Wife"

     


    A Little While Longer

          starting with a Dickinson line (#255)

    To die takes just a little while--they say it doesn't hurt.
    Hurry up now, faster, faster--that way it doesn't hurt.

    With sharp toothpicks, the son jabs his father's deadened legs.
    "I'm a voodoo doll," jokes the man, "It's OK, it doesn't hurt."

    Cancer ward: the term's enough to make a mother retch.
    A child of indeterminate sex whispers, "Stay. It doesn't hurt."

    After the rush, you'll forget about the needle in the vein.
    A simple means to an end--like an X-ray, it doesn't hurt.

    At their son's confession, his parents stare in disbelief.
    Not a word about his AIDS, just "I'm gay, it doesn't hurt."

    Knowing it's worse to argue with him, she spreads her legs,
    closes her eyes and dreams for the day it doesn't hurt.

    Bullets for an enemy whose eyes and hearts cannot be seen.
    The soldier: "The end is but a breath away. It doesn't hurt."

    "Now I lay me down to sleep," a child repeats by rote.
    Pray he makes it through the night. Pray it doesn't hurt.

     

     


     

    Another sonnet,
    this one using slant rhyme.

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Below Freezing

    Two stacks, two clouds of smoke above them like
    a stop-gap photograph, frozen throughout
    the hour I walk. Two teens down at the lake
    are sharing a smoke, their dark cigarette
    as vacant as their scowls, my own cold breath
    more interesting. And then I spot the ice,
    a rim around the lake, a ten-foot swath,
    not strong enough to walk upon. Some ass
    has tossed a crumpled can on it, as if
    to prove it real, for ice like this just seems
    another trick. This winter is no bluff:
    two more hard freezes forecast. At such times
    pollutants frame the distant power plant
    while green agaves blacken from the front.

     

     

     

     

    A poem that came out
    of a Wingbeats workshop
    with Abe Louise Young!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Ode to the L Scrabble Tile

    Without you, I would get fat, not flat,
    wide, not wild.
    I could never be newfangled,
    only newfanged.
    I would eat fan, not flan,
    yet however much I ate,
    I would never be late,
    could never loaf, just oaf,
    could bend, but never blend.

    Without you, my legs would be eggs,
    my glasses would be gases,
    my lair would be mere air.
    And lo would be oh,
    lye would be eye,
    and a fling would just be a fing.
    My feet could never be fleet.
    My slick would just be sick.

    I couldn't howl, only ask how.
    Though lone would be one,
    I would tire of of
    and miss out on love.

     

     

     

     

    See Mary Oliver's poem,
    "The Egret," the source
    for this poem's vocabulary!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Therefore

    The silent water,
        green and sheer,
    a white froth
        at her edge

    that open like scrolls.
        Mottled frogs
    shoulder in reeds,
        words gone thin

    in an instant,
        then back,
        smooth bellies weedy
    inthe bamboo.

    The polished wild
        of her fish,
    little shadows
        inches from terror,

    tasting death
        at every shore,
    the inverted world
        of egrets and legs,

    of flames and such.
        A stranger
    at her silky door,
        I ripple into liquid.

     

     

     

     

    A gay take
    on the classic fairy tale!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Three Billys, Accosted at The Bridge

    Twink Billy shrieked
    when the talons of Miss T
    Burrowed into his arm.
    He squealed again
    when she slimed the back of his neck
    with her raspy-as-a-cat tongue.
    "Not so fast," bellowed the drag queen,
    well past her sell-by date.
    "I could eat you like an ice cream
    sundae covered in hot nuts,"
    her ess hissing like a punctured tire.
    "I just want to gi in and dance,"
    Twink Billy blubbered, "and there's
    much sexier guys behind me--look!"

    Metro Billy entered in a swirl
    of designer cologne and duds,
    each hair perfectly in place.
    Miss T was on him in less time
    than it takes to say "stilettos."
    "Oh, baby," she cooed, "You
    got something Momma needs,"
    bending over to kiss his fly.
    "Don't touch me, you freak--
    these are $500 jeans!"
    Aghast in glitter and foundation,
    her mouth like a blow-up doll,
    Miss T became a shark, aching for blood.
    "The trash behind me is more
    your style," pronounced Metro Billy
    as he swished past into the club.

    Indeed, Butch Billy, with his
    black leather vest and assless chaps,
    set her drooling like a baby.
    She looped a lacquered nail
    through his nipple ring, murmured,
    "Now isn't this convenient?
    I adore a man with hardware.
    As Miss T grabbed for his junk,
    the thick fist of Butch Billy
    smashed into her jaw, wig
    and false eyelashes flying,
    a sprawled mess at his feet.
    He growled, "Thought you liked it rough?"
    Simpering on her knees to the street,
    "I like it gruff, you goat!
    I'll find another place to troll."
    Miss T was never again seen at The Bridge.

     

     

     

     


     

     

     

     

     

     


    Crepe Myrtles


    Your trunks are smooth as shaven legs. I look
    around before I run my hands up them--
    can stroking trees, a little baby talk,
    be all that wrong? So why this whiff of shame
    when fingers rub your wooden bole, or when
    my cheeks caress and nuzzle--well, you know
    the spots. I close my eyes, clearly discern
    a gentle moan--but should this be taboo?
    Our love is hard, but I can't stay away,
    for once my lips touched wood, I had no choice
    but to succumb: I'm born to love on the sly.
    The world may never sanction our embrace,
    our honeyed, deciduous kind of kink.
    Let's go further, out on a limb, toward pink.

     

     

     

     


     

     

     

     

     

     


    My Zoo Story


    My first thought: the man
    on the park bench must be dead.
    Head scrunched low into his chest,
    shoulders curled into the comma
    of his torso . . . but then a quiver,
    the body language of deep sorrow.
    I think of Jerry in The Zoo Story,
    waiting for someone to help him
    die. I fear I might be that someone.

    A gust of wind scatters
    crumpled leaves at his feet.
    As if coming out of a trance,
    he slowly lifts his head.
    I see his face at last--
    no pain, no tears.
    A crooked grin and a wink.
    His pants unzipped, he works
    that thing like a knife.

     

     

     

     


     

     

     

     

     

     


    May Day


        for Mary Bacon, 1940-2011

    This is the day the sunflowers awake,
    their eager, yellow smiles reminding me
    of you. This is the day a sudden trick
    of light reveals a simple rosary-
    sized cross--no Christ in agony--a plain
    non-nonsense goodness. Yes, I think of you.
    This is the day I find a sparrow's wing,
    a crumpled thing once full of joy, like you.
    And when I reach the lake, a hundred star-
    shaped water lilies crinkle like Van Gogh's
    majestic skies. It's you that I conjure--
    that playful look, your eyes. A life outgrows
    the living, carries on beyond the day.
    This is the day when some will go, some stay.

     

     

     

     

    An abecedarian
    from the "Audacity" issue!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    One Night Hook-up

    Afterwards, he couldn't remember why
    but he knew there must be a reason for
    crash-test dummies in her bedroom,
    dressed in oversized sweatshirts sporting
    Emerson and Princeton, their fleshy heads
    flanked by black and yellow warning signs.
    "Go!" they seemed to advise, but he couldn't
    head out while she lay there snoring with all the
    indifference of a slow-leaking inflatable raft
    jackknifed on a naked beach, her left
    knuckles grazing his chest, almost sweetly,
    like she meant it. He tried to move,
    motionlessly, toward the edge of the bed,
    noticed jabs of discomfort at his back and near an
    orifice that he preferred remain under
    quarantine from foreign objects of any sort--
    potato chips, crushed but still crunching, still
    ridged, though he couldn't recall a late-night
    snack--just lots of tequila--but he nonetheless
    tasted one (barbecue-flavored), just as she
    unburdened a fusty cloud of gas and
    vocalized a grunt that sounded like "more."
    Weighing his options and spotting the
    X-rated array of chips festering on her
    yoohoo (her term), he abandoned chivalry,
    zipped from the bed, zippered out the door.

     

     

     

     

    In addition to my haibun,
    this issue includes my article,
    "Walking Poetry," and poems
    from my 2011 Alpine students!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Looking for Water

    Discarded mattresses slump over an abandoned dryer outside Mitchell's, a former gas station in the heart of a town where everything is formerly something, everything used or antique--farm equipment, buildings, guitars.

    Creed Taylor, Texas Ranger, and wife Blanch remain immortalized in brick on a Holland Street sidewalk outside the Rail Road Park. Drought-tolerant fountains of cacti fade in sunlight. Empty and corroded letters prove the Alpine Lumber Company has been long-gone.

    A train chugs behind Harry's Tinaja, its ditch as dry as the skulls that decorate it--no water at this watering hole--then a clang-clang-clang and Spriggs Boot & Saddle Shop, selling everything from biker gear to books, whatever it takes to stay in business. A horse trailer ambles by with more occupants than the many houses for sale--reduced.

    A peeling red and white sign welcomes visitors to the Bien Venido, and a woman loads Deer Chow into her pick-up at the Exxon. Too early for Twin Peaks Liquor to be open, where no doubt they do have the best selection West of the Pecos. Outside another former gas station, now a woodwork shop--also for sale--a rock fountain with the thinnest dribble of rusty water.

       August edges in,
       pledges more dust,
       desert willows wither

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Watching Glee with My Mother

    Some things don't change.
    The gay student is again
    bashed into the lockers.
    Slurs are all that's missing--
          faggot! cocksucker!--
    but this is network television.
    I wipe away tears, hearing
    the reverberation of bone on metal.
    "This," I tell my mother,
    "is what high school was like for me."

    This is the most I've said
    to my mother about that dim period
    since she took me
    to have my stomach pumped
    four decades ago.
    She never once asked why.

    Murder wasn't in me,
    though I thought about it.
    There is always
    another tormenter in waiting.
    I did not want to die.
    I wanted flight.

    She says, "I thought this
    was supposed to be a comedy."
    "It gets better," I reply,
    and the next musical number begins.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Introduction to Want

    What I remember of the bedroom:
    planes proliferating in explosive
    blockbusters, but mostly the loop
    of relentless commercials. We tired
    of condoms, Viagra on shelves
    just out of reach, fat on the grill,
    incontinence, beer-swilling
    as the national verb, the latest
    popstar bronze as American arms,
    big ol' Rams black as burnt toast.

    How we compromised, picking
    our sacrifices, always testing--
    takeout or delivery? paper or
    plastic? extra cheese?--
    staring at papered walls before
    the weekends were through,
    my words in orbit around
    his giant screen and tiny speakers.
    He introduced me to want--
    of something . . . I don't remember.

    And now, breakfast at two,
    nude in my own garage,
    I'm lost on Memorial Day.
    I see him or someone like him
    in fusty towns across Texas.
    I seem to remember in circles.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Woman with the Half-Inch Memory

    Then erodes like a sand dune
    spilling into the abyss of a lake.
    Still, what can you do to hold back
    the tumbling cascade of grains?

    An apple a day won't help.
    Plump memories thin to a whistle,
    the tinny sound of time's dry breath.
    You worry. You used to have

    tricks, but now the shell game
    turns up empty, empty, empty.
    You used to be sharp. Puzzles?
    No challenge. New ideas stuck

    like fence posts lining a pasture.
    The whole fat world awaited--
    then left you in its dust, speeding up
    while you slowed down, shrinking,

    an ice cube in warm water.
    You swallow cocktails of pills
    to stave off deterioration,
    but the grains are slipping faster

    than medical progress. Your greens
    are transforming into bronze.
    You clench the best days deep in your fist,
    your irrepressible grip already relaxing.

     

     

     

     

     

     


    At Michael Reese

    I sit on a slatted hospital bench,
    legs so short they stick out like icicles,
    body bundled for a long, hard winter.
    I am alone in the waiting room,
    staring blankly through plate-glass
    at a Chicago sky as gray as smoke.
    I am three, which makes my brother
    one. He is the reason I'm here.

    I sit for hours, time like a train
    with no stops, yet I barely move.
    I am Daddy's perfect little Marine.
    I hear crying, not my silent brother,
    who's under a thick plastic tent in a room
    where I am not allowed to go.

    I sit, much later, on a second-hand sofa
    in our cold third-floor tenement
    as we view the family slides:
    Mark in the hospital crib,
    before and after the tracheotomy,
    as sickly pink as a vinyl doll.
    Magnified on a sheet on the wall,
    one disconcerting slide after another
    appears through cigarette clouds,
    projected memories I can't imagine
    anyone would want to keep.

     

     

    Yes, a sestina!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Limbo

    You wait
    for the eyes of light
    to open, the dark to leave
    and revisit its home.
    Will you then face
    the day and the need

    to do something, a need
    that drags a somber weight?
    You slap your face
    to snap to the light
    easing into the orderly home.
    You don't want to leave

    the bed.
    October leaves
    shadow the blind need
    for movement, like home
    movies without sound. Wait
    as the room floods with light
    and the clock's face

    glares, but you'll have to face
    it sometime: everyone leaves,
    unburdens, lightens,
    accepts the body's needs
    and the long wait
    for home.

    It takes effort to home
    in on the forlorn face
    in the mirror, the weight
    more leaden, refusing to leave.
    This hour of need,
    this time of light,

    when dark and light
    are both a way home,
    and all you really need
    is hidden in lines in your face--
    soon, soon you can leave.
    But now you must wait,

    face the need
    for light, for home,
    for leaving. Wait.

     

    This is one of nine

    of my poems that appears

    in this issue of Assaracus

    --a personal best.

     

     


    Stand-Off

    We went to bed like boars, but now
    we wake without the strength to fight.
    How we lose our passions, and how
    the day shades with echoes of night.

    Still we brood from hostile corners,
    hold on to thoughts of wrong or right
    like burnished martyrs, lost mourners--
    the day shades with echoes of night.

    Lights are dimmed. Love is kept in tow.
    We, as polar as black and white,
    speak with silence, watch the hours go.
    The day shades with echoes of night.

     

    Also includes my sonnet

    "A New Year."

    "Drag" is a bouts-rimés.

     

     


    What a Drag It Is Getting Old

    He spent his days in reverie, a June
    of climbing trees, exploring creeks, when stress
    occurred as frequently as a blue moon.
    Then innocence dissolved--he began to obsess.
    Adolescence slithered in, the snake
    of sexuality. Resistance was moot.
    A sparkly tube of lipstick, some gloss, a cake
    of foundation--tricks to turn him into a beaut,
    those raging dreams of Harlow, Hayworth, Garbo.
    A different kind of dress-up, not quite the play
    of children--an Indian today, a hobo
    tomorrow--Halloween became every day.
    With wig on tight, he squeezes into a rhinestone
    gown. Presenting Chanel--name, not cologne.

     

    My entire crown of sonnets,

    "Days Too Close,"

    appears in this issue.

    This is the last sonnet in the crown.

     

     


    Sunday

    Tomorrow bears the weight. A new regime
    of exercise? Of vitamins and bran?
    Despite the years of shrinks, your self-esteem
    is still a broken yolk in life's hot pan.
    It's burning, bottom-sticking. Something's got
    to change. Return to therapy? Increase
    the meds? Or quit the job, the coffee pot?
    Your life's consumed in quiet flames, and piece
    by piece it peels away. You need new blood.
    The phone won't ring, and even mother shuns
    her Sunday call. You hear that gasping thud,
    the siege of self imploding toward undone?
    Another week dissolves like that--a flash.
    The days have grown too close, all dun and ash.

     

     

     


    Work Boots

    Did you know, Dad,
    that I still own those dirty
    hand-me-down boots
    you gave me forty years ago?
    They've survived a dozen moves,
    numerous workouts, and
    several purges, though they've
    been relegated to the pauper's
    cemetery of a closet floor.

    I pulled the boots out today
    for the first time in a decade,
    dust so thick the paint stains
    on the leather can barely be seen.
    Soil still cakes their soles.
    Their mouths have been on
    a subsistence diet of cobwebs;
    spider eggs rest on their blistered
    tongues. Down the caves
    of their throats are darkness
    and desiccated things
    no one should have to touch.
    I know I'll never again
    put my feet in those shoes.

    Yet I return those crusty old
    boots to their provisional plot,
    watch the dust settle, wash
    my hands. Somehow it's easier,
    Dad, than burying the dead.

     

    Also includes my poem,

    "Fidelity"

     

     


    Deception

    An egret's at the lower falls, his neck
    a long, white vine. His eyes look lazy, blind
    to water, sky, and me--but it's a trick,
    just like the lotus blossom body and,
    the two thin stilts that anchor it. I know
    a closer step will set him off: the limbs
    will wrinkle into pleats, the neck will yaw
    into its hold, the unseen wings will prime

    for flight. When he takes off, those wings outstretch
    beyond the humble body I observed
    and open like a sail to fill a niche
    of blue, a bloom unfurled. I've been so starved
    for magic that this sleight-of-wing enchants.
    He flies away, as I catch one more glance.

     

     

     

     


    Morning Glories

        for Bob Lindeman

    The native morning glories twine their way
    through thatch and grass along the traveled trail,
    up posts and young bur oaks, up huisache,
    'round thorns like razored needles. They prevail,
    insistent as gallos, their bugles blue
    as dawn, their notes both high and clear. They've half
    a day to make the most and bloom into
    themselves before they write their epitaph.

    We've much to learn from them: the stretch, the climb,
    the brief blast of a horn, the feeble hold
    to any higher thing. There's never time,
    there's never time: how quick from young to old.
    With each daybreak, as blue spreads out its rhyme,
    remember morning glories' open folds.

     

    A terza rima sonnet!

     

     

     


    Spirit

    So startling, the sudden flash of wings
    above the water, white and wide--a gasp
    unloosed, a husky breath escaped my lungs.

    I hadn't seen the egret on the cusp
    of flight, but when he flew I felt that time
    had stopped, that this would be the perfect way

    for any life to end. I followed him,
    this holy gift, in search of clarity
    as luminous as his great wings--and then

    he landed, looked at me: a bird, no more,
    no less. The neck, a crooked ess again;
    the bill, a yellow stitch. And yet the air

    was charged, for I'd been touched as though a god
    appeared from high--and I'd been purified.

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Seven-Year Itch

    No one would mistake us for newlyweds.
    We stopped honing the blade years ago,
    started assuming the other
    would whet it when necessary.
    It's not that we no longer care;
    it's that we stopped caring to work so hard
    to keep the edges keen.

    There was a time we might have
    lanced our palms with significant X's
    and smeared our life-lines together.
    Have we reached the dagger's edge,
    the point of proceeding or severing,
    only to find it's not as sharp as it should be?

    We settled in the silence of cozy detachment,
    but years require we deepen incisions,
    scratch and scrape till we hit bone,
    grind our hands till the blood cements.
    To pull them apart, we'd need to feel pain--
    or something.

     

     

    Another ekphrastic poem!

     

     

     

     

     


    Living Room Scene

    based on Eric Fischl's "Krefeld Project, Living Room Scene 1"

    The light pouring through the picture window's so bright
    that I can't see out, so how the hell . . . ? Yeah, right,
    I'm sure they're lining up to see a middle-aged man
    in all his naked glory. Oh, wait! Is that the Cohen's van
    slowing down? "Howdy, neighbors, good to see
    you!" I'll wave if I want to, Irma. Let it be--
    there's no one there and no one who cares. What?
    I will not step away from the window. My butt
    or my gut? Which is my better side? After all
    these years, you should know. No? Well, call
    the neighbors. I'll turn around we can take a poll.
    You used to laugh till you peed, Irma. It is funny--butt
    or gut? Butt or--oops!--gut? I will not shut
    up! And if they can't see me, then how the hell
    would they see a glass in my hand? Don't yell!
    I don't care if it's only nine a.m. It's my house
    and nobody else's business, including yours. Grouse
    all you want--just fill our goddamn glasses, all right?
    It's the butt, isn't it? C'mon, step into the light.

     

    Included in my new book, Presence!

    A wonderful "little" journal!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Two White Moths

    A single blue star quivers
    at an acute distance.

    Two white moths batter
    the bleak patio light.

    I shut the blinds and retire
    to a blanketless bed.

    Words like tiny caskets lie
    on the nightstand, reminders

    of what's been started
    and what's not finished,

    ink already fading
    into an obscure universe.

    Would faith be less desolate
    if the heavens were attainable,

    if those moths
    could beat the light?


     

    One of a series of poems

    based on the human chromosomes!

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Chromosome 14: Black History Moment

    Henrietta Lacks was 31 in 1951,
    the year she died of cervical cancer.
    Half a century later, her cells live on.

    Even under controlled conditions,
    blood cells die within a few weeks,
    but not the cells of Henrietta Lacks,
    which miraculously multiplied
    like Biblical loaves and fishes.
    Every day an entire new generation
    of Henrietta's cells reproduced.
    They flourished, mushroomed,
    leapt from test tubes
    like carbonated bubbles.

    With a new name, HeLa genes
    were soon packaged in containers
    with instructions for feeding,
    like sourdough starters passed
    from neighbor to neighbor.
    Beyond the confines of Henrietta's world,
    they made their way
    to England, Russia, Chile, Japan,
    to outer space aboard the shuttle.

    The unsung hero of the polio vaccine
    was not a doctor or scientist,
    but an unwitting wife and mother
    with cancer cells out of control.
    Henrietta Lacks never imagined
    the thousands of pounds of cells
    she would bear through the years,
    her genetic largesse, her legacy.


     

    Also includes my poem,

    "My Generation"

     

     


    Lessons to Learn

    A hand extends. Another hand, like leaf
    to sun, ascends, accepts, and fingers clasp
    for warmth against the cold. But like a thief,
    one slips away as cars approach, the grasp
    dissolved before the yell of faggot wrecks
    the walk. A hand, another hand, that's all:
    no look, no kiss, no hint of any sex.

    The public touch of man to man, though small,
    is never innocent to those who feel
    a threat of impudence. So curses spew
    and fists come out--worse, a glint of steel.
    A bloodied couple learns to fear anew,
    to stash their hands in pockets deep, to shove
    into the dark those signs of outward love.


     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     


    Playing GI Joes

    My GI Joe didn't care for camouflage,
    that dreary melange of green and khaki.
    He preferred the minimal clothes that I created
    with a pair of scissors and poor sewing skills:
    hot little loincloths attached with a pin,
    paisley ponchos that required only a hole,
    a strip of red velvet for a headband or belt.

    My GI Joe craved reconnaissance missions.
    He would sneak about my sister's room
    raiding Barbie's boutique for fashion ideas,
    trying on faux fur and elastic-banded skirts,
    tube tops and a white-beaded bridal veil--
    forays which seldom produced good fits
    but occasionally spawned fantastic accessories.

    My GI Joe was a gung-ho exhibitionist.
    He'd rip off his Army fatigue jacket,
    metal snaps rat-a-tatting like an M-1 rifle;
    he'd strut that smooth plastic chest
    as if his twelve-inch stature controlled the barracks;
    then he'd drop his pants around the ankles,
    displaying buttocks as solid as rocks--
    an audacious tease for one without a penis.

    My GI Joe learned to take a lot of pain.
    He'd volunteer to cross into enemy terrain,
    where he'd be captured without a struggle,
    stripped like a go-go boy, and thrown into a cell.
    Tied-up, disciplined, tortured into a frenzy,
    he was a master of man-to-man endurance,
    revealing only name, rank, and serial number
    as a sly grin edged toward the scar on his cheek,
    a mark that covered so many of our secrets.


     

     

     

    Thanks for stopping by! I'd love to hear any comments you have about these poems!