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about me
poet, technologist, cynic, father of five, child of chaos, punker, prankster, patriot, punster, leftist, latino, japanophile, audiophile, beer drinker, quiche eater, dog walker, soft talker, deep thinker, shallow sleeper, introvert, covert operative in a parallel universe.

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* m a y s t a r *
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  •  

    extra special bitter
    hops are bitter. life is bitter. coincidence?

    Monday, June 27, 2005

    waiting for the interview

    waiting for the interview —
    a potted plant
    beyond watering

     

    Saturday, June 25, 2005

    heat wave

    heat wave —
    the dog’s breath
    against my leg

     

    Tuesday, June 21, 2005

    first day of summer

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

     

    Sunday, June 19, 2005

    Father's Day

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

     

    Friday, June 17, 2005

    Wellesley Square station

    Wellesley Square station —
    a dozen Wall Street Journals
    with legs

     

    Thursday, June 16, 2005

    June drizzle

    June drizzle —
    tree pollen
    on the dog’s snout

     

    Wednesday, June 15, 2005

    June overcast

    June overcast —
    wild daisies
    in an open field

     

    Tuesday, June 14, 2005

    Flag Day

    Flag Day —
    anti-war demonstrators
    led away in handcuffs

    it happened here.

     

    Monday, June 13, 2005

    desolation

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

     

    Saturday, June 11, 2005

    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.

     

    Friday, June 10, 2005

    partly cloudy

    partly cloudy —
    until I decide to leave
    my umbrella behind

     

    Thursday, June 09, 2005

    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

     

    Wednesday, June 08, 2005

    another hot one

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

    (if only it were true)

     

    Tuesday, June 07, 2005

    weeding the garden

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

     

    Monday, June 06, 2005

    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

     

    Sunday, June 05, 2005

    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.

     

    Saturday, June 04, 2005

    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.

     

    Friday, June 03, 2005

    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.

     

    Thursday, June 02, 2005

    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...

     

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