Halloween

Halloween —
the devil
knows my name

Devil's Night

Devil’s Night —
the ghostly glow
of CNN

October snow

October snow —
suddenly I feel
so old

food shopping

food shopping —
one more bag of Halloween candy
“just in case”

layoff rumors

layoff rumors —
a full cup
of burnt coffee

Halloween

Halloween —
President Bush thanks me
for the Snickers bar

sometimes I only want...

...everything, except the very thing that I dare not want, which is to say that I want not to want that very thing. but I digress. snow is in the forecast, leaves are on the ground, and I can’t seem to find my arsenal. the leaves that have fallen have not yet changed color — they have fallen to violent hands in the form of wind and rain. it’s sunny now, but I’m not cheered in the slightest.

because nothing is coming up roses, but rather everything is glowing with the faintest traces of light. it’s in those spaces approaching darkness that we become most enlightened.

except that I don’t believe that. I don’t even want to. what do I want? anything?

snow in the forecast

snow in the forecast
I microwave
my coffee

startled from sleep

startled from sleep —
did I save
that spreadsheet?

phone call

phone call
from my ex-wife —
mold on a peach

the old tree

the old tree —
crossed-out initials
inside a heart

first frost

first frost —
more than a touch of gray
in my beard

were you speaking?

were you speaking?
I was busy
counting stars

gibbous moon

gibbous moon —
an email from my ex-wife
flagged as “junk”

slow night

slow night —
the barmaid buys
another round

there goes gravity

“wild flowers” she said.
they were weeds.
“from a secret admirer.”
I could see where this was going already.
“how do you know?” I asked.
“there was a note.”
“can I see it?”
“why? are you jealous?”
“should I be jealous?”

she paused to smell them, inhaling deeply as if they were the most fragrant roses ever to grace the planet. then she tossed them into the river.

“they were from you.”

(still) october

october —
I go to work wearing
the wrong color socks

october wind

october wind —
the dog guards
a freshly fallen acorn

the boogeyman weeps

meet me in the ashes of the old city. bring a bottle of the finest cheap wine; I’ll bring the paper cups. there we’ll watch the river rise and fall against the broken glass shore and sleep under the stars.

it rained. she never showed. the river was snatched into the air by a big black vulture, silent except for the rush of wings.

clearing trend

clearing trend —
a stranger returns
my “hello”

night terror

night terror —
the crack in the dogwood branch
deepens

billboard

my lover’s eyes
are bigger than my fist.
they follow me
down dark alleyways
and wait for me
outside the office
outside the pub
outside my home
more patient than God
all-seeing, all knowing,
knowing
that I will return
that I will do
anything
she says.

october

october
all the storm windows
closed

startled from sleep

startled from sleep
the broken gutter
drips

the forecast

the forecast:
monday morning drizzle
all week long

high school football game

high school football game —
my son takes his helmet off
in the driving rain

heightened security

heightened security —
pigeons watch the cop
who walks the beat

quiet night

quiet night —
a fish swims
through the moon

Who do I think I am?

Self-image is a curious thing. In creating this blog, I listed a number of attributes about myself that were intended as a sort of word-portrait. In truth, it’s what I want you to believe about me. The reality behind the smokescreen is a bit more prosaic: I really think of myself as an alarmingly skinny, painfully awkward adolescent with gray hair. Of course that self-image is only partly true, but it’s been indelibly stamped into the mirror of my self-consciousness. It may not be what I am, but it’s what I think I am.

Let’s take ethnicity for example: I was born in Rockville Centre, NY to American parents, which makes me an American. Easy enough. Both of my father’s parents were born in Puerto Rico, as were all of his grandparents. What does he consider himself? Spanish. Not Puerto Rican, not Hispanic, not Latino - Spanish. My mother’s mother was also born in Puerto Rico, while her father was born in the Phillipines to a Spanish mother and an English father. What does she consider herself? Puerto Rican, as do all of her siblings. This is the context of my own cultural ambiguity.

While my parents grew up in the melting pot of Brooklyn, I grew up in the opaque Tupperware bowl of Farmingdale, NY. We were just another middle class family with a station wagon and aluminum siding. We were as white as Wonder Bread.

With a few notable differences, of course. My mother and her family always spoke to one another in Spanish, while my father spoke to his family as seldomly as possible, and never in Spanish. So while my brothers and I heard plenty of Spanish growing up, my parents spoke to us exclusively in English. Spanish was a secret code belonging to the grownups. I grew familiar with the melodies and cadences of the languages, but I couldn’t sing along.

I started to learn a foreign language in the fourth grade. It was French. The Farmingdale school system taught Spanish and French in alternating years, and I happened to be in a French year. I learned it well enough to score a perfect grade on my 10th grade Regents exam. I can barely speak a word of it today.

In college I finally had my first opportunity to learn Spanish. I took a placement exam, which revealed that while I had a great accent and good ear for the language, I had a very limited vocabulary and no understanding of Spanish grammar. I was a beginner. Over a quarter century later, I’m still a beginner. Most of what I hear outside of a classroom setting is much too fast for my ear to discern more than every third or fourth word. When speaking, I still formulate sentences in English and attempt to translate them on the fly into Spanish. This results in a considerable delay, not to mention a significant amount of self-consciousness. Simply put, I lack the confidence to speak.

Which is a shame, since, as a phonetic language, Spanish makes so much sense to me. Moreover, it’s in my blood. How can I not speak it? How can I not be what I am?

Or is it only what I think I am?

wrong number

wrong number —
the dog climbs into
my side of the bed

new moon

new moon —
not much new
this monday morning

(still) October

October —
a shower of champagne
in the winning clubhouse

October

October —
I show my teenaged sons
how to use an axe