waiting for the interview

waiting for the interview —
a potted plant
beyond watering

heat wave

heat wave —
the dog’s breath
against my leg

first day of summer

first day of summer —
my son filled with lust
for a car

Father's Day

Father’s Day —
my sons’ deep voices
on the answering machine

Wellesley Square station

Wellesley Square station —
a dozen Wall Street Journals
with legs

June drizzle

June drizzle —
tree pollen
on the dog’s snout

June overcast

June overcast —
wild daisies
in an open field

Flag Day

Flag Day —
anti-war demonstrators
led away in handcuffs

it happened here.

desolation

the car’s on fire and there’s no driver at the wheel.
elsewhere, a star has exploded to polite applause.

a beer is a poem is a hand grenade...

...silencing the birdsong
in tall leafless trees
framing the horizon
of poison grey haze
and staggering to the drunken music
of a cocktail napkin haiku.

partly cloudy

partly cloudy —
until I decide to leave
my umbrella behind

of fathers and daughters

I guess it’s safe to say that I’m obsessing over my daughter’s upcoming wedding. Far from micromanaging the decision-making process, I’m pretty much on the sidelines—just me and my stress—perplexed that my wisdom and clairvoyance are being scorned in favor of blind exhuberance. Like my daughter and her fiance, my first wife and I were in our twenties when we married. Between us, we didn’t even have spare change of a clue. Ultimately our relationship ran out of gas, leaving our five children broken and bewildered. I suspect my daughter is striving for some measure of redemption. For her sake I hope she succeeds.

My main responsibility for the wedding ceremony, aside from mournfully walking my daughter down the aisle, is writing a poem for the occasion and reading it in front of what promise to be politely impatient guests. I wrote paper clip during my single days and performed it at two weddings, including my own. It’s a little too carefree to capture the weighty thoughts of an overwrought father. My words must be insightful and amusing—not intense, but effervescent—eloquence, affection and cleverness topped with a pretty pink bow. I’m reasonably certain that I’ve never written a poem like that.

Interestingly, I was specifically asked not to write a haiku.

lightning

lightning —
the next time I see my daughter
will be her wedding day

another hot one

another hot one —
the lemonade stand
offers free Wi-Fi

(if only it were true)

weeding the garden

weeding the garden —
my daughter asks me
to write a “nice” poem

words fail me...

...and yet in spite of that I attempt to use them to clarify my thoughts.

All of my toys are broken, but I refuse to throw them away.

The dog carefully crosses to the other side of the street when I walk by.

Every breath is a sigh, and every sigh a dying dove.

I don’t want to play any more...

a hurried hug

a hurried hug —
the goddamned train
is right on time

wheel of fortune

(an oldie)

Vanna is looking all the worse for wear
but I am hypnotised
by the reflection of the bright studio lights
on her perfectly capped teeth.
so tonight
with the TV volume muted
I crank up the Ramones
and solve the world’s problems
or rather

I try to forget
whether this beer is my second or third.
there must be a haiku in here somewhere
I think out loud.
back in Hollywood

some jolly old Everyman
has won the jackpot.
meanwhile
having successfully lost count
I open another beer
and turn the lights off on Vanna.
only then
do I see the prize:
the ring on your finger.

necessity

sobriety
as a lifestyle
is grossly overrated.
every image improves
as it dances
in liquid light.
my memory
serves me
far better
erased
degaussed
forgotten.
I finally
feel necessary
holding up this wall.

spasm

I never
had to remind myself
to breathe before.
suddenly
I am surrounded
by barriers and traps.
my own body
conspires against me.
I scream
as if waking from a nightmare
but I haven’t slept.
lightning rivets
my heels to the pavement
and I clench my eyes shut
as I swallow the thunder.

spine

Today I found out that I didn’t have one—or, more accurately—that I have one that can’t be fixed through surgery. Not that I put any more trust in the medical profession than is deserved. It’s more that I crave completion, and now I’m back on an indefinite path to some ambiguous and perhaps unobtainable goal of pain-free living. I’m numb—every place except where I’d like to be...