if I were noble

if I were noble I would wistfully smile the daydream away, instead of wishing it to linger, lingering on the wish as if that would somehow make it less impossible. I secretly curse my paralysis even as I raise my glass in a hearty toast.

I dreamed

I dreamed I was a fire ant.
I dreamed I was small, red and angry.
I dreamed that you were my mother, and that you hovered in the hum of the fluorescent lights at the office.
I dreamed that the bartender knew my name and kept bringing me my favorite drink.
I dreamed in vivid technicolor.
I dreamed in soft, effervescent waves.
I dreamed the girl next door into my dream.
I dreamed that you were an abstraction of every sentence fragment I ever uttered, every secret thought I ever drove from my conscious mind, every hope I ever set aside for a little while, and then forever.
I dreamed that I was impossible, and then I was.

you're my favorite vegetable

I’ve been told
you’re good for me —
everything I need
in the palm of my hand.
and I admit
there are times
when I crave nothing else.
but when the night refuses to end
I find myself reaching
for something else
while you remain faithful —
polished and refrigerated
on a clear plastic shelf.

back bay blues

I’m tired of writing this poem
but your
black-stockinged
stiletto-heeled self
compels me.
I’m doing this for you, after all.
you wouldn’t exist
without the words I breathe
into your delicious mouth
with my ale-drenched lips
while you clutch
and squirm
and sway
to the rhythm
of my random verse.
I drink deeply
of the smile
I’ve painted for you.
your rush hour perfume trail
propels me into orbit
above the skyscraper sky.
the taste of your fear
intoxicates me
and at length
I drop my pen
and watch you
slowly
dissolve
into the next daydream.

it's the most wonderful time of the year

Christmas crunch —
I lose my wife
in shopping cart gridlock

the commute

the way I see it
this train will never arrive —
we’ll all end up
frozen to the platform
like haphazard statues.
so in preparation
I strike
a series of fetching poses
each worthy of immortality.
everyone tries to ignore me.

as the poet amongst us
I am pondering
the monument’s inscription:
we never wept.
you never came.

too old to care

While driving into work today I had this great idea: record a solo album of punk/folk/rock songs, accompanied only by a guitar—alternating between electric and acoustic, just to keep it interesting. Rather than pretending to be something I wasn’t, I’d be exactly who I was, hence the title “too old to care”. I would not be as melancholic as Elliott Smith, nor as British as Billy Bragg, nor as fanciful as Robyn Hitchcock, nor as self-consciously abstract as Robert Pollard.

Of course, if I were to be exactly who I was, I wouldn’t be able to play guitar, write songs or sing, except to the radio blaring in Mass Pike rush hour traffic. The fantasy evaporated along with the reception about halfway through the Ted Williams Tunnel.

And so it went.

Except for this: the next time someone tells me that I’m too old to be singing “Pawn Shoppe Heart”, I’ll tell them that I’m too old to care...

between exits

I regained consciousness
just as the rain became heavy.
the violence
of the downpour
pinned me to the ground
and lulled me back to sleep.
awakened by thunder
I clawed at the tall crabgrass.
turnpike traffic
streamed in the distance
but no one could see
the words
that had formed on my lips
the name
I could no longer hear.

Your Nuclear Moment

the day I kissed you
I nearly forgot
your longitude and latitude.
until then
the target was little more
than coordinates on paper
and a cluster of lights
in my field of vision.
suddenly
a flash
and then the steep climb upward
into the clouds
where I could almost taste
the ashes on your lips.

Peace, Love and Apprehension

I suffer from the occasional good mood. I've yet to seek medical help for the condition, since it usually doesn't last very long.

warm December night —
I release a mouse
from the trap

snow turns to rain

When I write a haiku that suggests a photograph (or is suggested by a photograph), I like to post it to haikupoet.com. In my experience, however, nobody likes to photograph mixed precipitation.

snow turns to rain —
phone calls to my children
unanswered

Where I've Hung My Hat

It occurs to me that I've lived in quite a few places in my 45-plus years. Counting backwards, let's track the progress of this tumbleweed:

Cochituate, MA (11/1997 to present)

Somerville, MA (1/1997 to 11/1997)

Acton, MA (7/1996 to 1/1997)

Stillwater, MN (10/1994 to 7/1996)

Niskayuna, NY (11/1993 to 10/1994)

Albany, NY (5/1993 to 11/1993)

Latham, NY (4/1991 to 5/1993)

Huntsville, AL (7/1987 to 4/1991) (2 different locations)

North Babylon, NY (1/1987 to 7/1987)

Charleston, SC (8/1986 to 1/1987)

Summerville, SC (7/1986 to 8/1986)

Amityville, NY (9/1982 to 7/1986)

Farmingdale, NY (1/1960 to 9/1982)

Brooklyn, NY (8/1959 to 1/1960)

home
is where I left my hat
on that fateful afternoon
acutely aware
of the symbolism
and the way it clashed
with your decor.
you never moved it.

19 May, 1998
Cochituate, MA

raking leaves

raking leaves —
all the apologies
I've never made

I've always viewed raking leaves as an acquiescence of sorts—acknowledging that Fall is over and that Winter is inevitable. The harshness of the December wind brings with it an urgency to complete the chore. The task is physically intense, forcing the mind to wander.

The original version of this haiku was somewhat more sinister:

raking leaves —
all the apologies
I'll never make

Once back inside, my perspective softened. Soon I'll view the snow as beautiful and quaint—in a New England sort of way—until I have to break out the shovel...