The Sky is Falling

The meteor shower was fierce and beautiful.
Fiery rocks streaked across sky
Red-gold-orange rainbow, howling
landing somewhere beyond.
There would be ruins in the landing:
Craters, fires, the dead.

 Where we were, miles from the edge
of the city, we gazed up up up
raptured by glitter trails.

Someday, those fierce rocks will land,
devastation will be our death.
But that day was not today
had not been yesterday
and likely would not be tomorrow.

 We stare at the showers of sparkles
listen to the howl shattering pitch
feel the sparks as they rain down
on our hair, cheeks, outstretched hands
a fast, yet gentle sprinkling.

 No, not today, not yesterday, not tomorrow.
But soon, sooner than we can plan for.
We were children, and we were ignorant.

Wool Jacket

You never said a word.

“What did you do in the war, Daddy?”

“I was in Italy.

Four years in Italy.

I came back, mostly in one piece.”

I button the heavy wool

suitable for mountains and trenches

but not the Florida sunshine.

Go outside to smoke a cigarette

blowing smoke rings

like you taught me.

The match glow highlights my bones

so I look like you.

Silent, too thin, lost in that hell

which left you with a limp

a long skinny scar

from midspine to thigh

and a Purple Heart

you kept in your sock drawer.

“Nothing to say, baby girl.

I went. I came home.”

I mash out the cigarette in a seashell

and bury my face in the musty wool of

Daddy’s war.

Winner 1st Place 2017 FSPA Lt George Birkner Memorial Award

Adonai Dayam Ha-Emet - final version

Adonai Dayan ha-Emet          

God is the One True Judge                            

Aveinu Malkeinu,                                                                 [Our Father, Our King]

Once, if I were honest, more than once, much more,

I wish I still lived alone

Just me, my pens, my books

And the ducks, murmuring under the street lamp.

Train whistles,

Who’s ready? Who’s willing? Who’s able?

            All Aboard!

Aveinu Malkeinu, Chaneinu V'aneinu                             [Our Father, Our King,

But I do not live alone.                                                       Be gracious and answer us]

Other people, things, inhabit this temporary home,

            Of bodies and offal

            On the search for real

I, responsible for detritus, distracted and rerouted

By not alone. Home is a vial of ash.

Ki ein banu ma'asim.                                                                   [For we have little merit]

In my heart, I am always alone.

Ase imanu,                                                                                     [Treat us with kindness]

Midnight.  I feed the ducks, throwing stale bread upon the water.

At sunrise, they sit on the edge of the eave and

Stare through the pane.

I am afraid that they, hungry, will break the glass.

Tzedakah vachesed,                                                                    [And be our help]

I am a walking suicide.

Ase imanu, tzedakah vachesed,                                                [Treat us with kindness,

I am more alone than I am with,                                                 And be our help]

More surprised when not surprised by the shadows of others

As they talk in the galleries

And I make tea and sandwiches

And salt the buttered bread

Memory of the dead and nearly dead and

Might as well be dead and draped mirrors

Playacting that I connect with those I serve.

Vehoshiyeinu.                                                                               [And save our people]

The conductor holds the door, impatient,

Calling me night after night.

All aboard! Where’s your ticket,

Reading the numbers inked

on the inside of my forearm.

The ducks sing Adonai dayan ha-emet                                   [God is the True Judge]

And then I hear nothing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Adonai dayan ha-emet: God is the True judge

Baruch atah Adonai, elohainu melach Haolem, dayan ha-emet.

The Hebrew blessing on hearing of a death :

Blessed is the Eternal One, Ruler of the Universe, the True Judge.

From the High Holy Day Services, a Prayer for Forgiveness

Aveinu Malkeinu,                                Our Father, our King,
Chaneinu V'aneinu,                             Be Gracious and Answer us
ki ein banu ma'asim.                          For we have little merit.
Ase imanu tzedakah vachesed,           Treat us with kindness, be our help
vehoshiyeinu.                                     And save our people.

Aveinu Malcheinu, be gracious and answer us, for we have little merit.

Treat us generously and with kindness, and be our help.

Natural Causes

I want to die

Of natural causes

Not from flying debris

Not in a plane crash

Not from a bomb

Or falling off a mountain

                When passing a truck

                On a road blocked by massive boulders

Not from being hit by a train

                Or a trail derailing

Certainly not by brake failure

Natural or sliced

Of a car or bicycle

Not from a pill and alcohol cocktail.

From natural causes

In my bed

Feeling my ribs pierce my heart

And the blood seep out

In pretty spatter patterns,

Yes.

Although a gun would also

Leave a lovely spray.

What the Eye Sees

work in progress

The mote in my eye conceals the flaws

The words from your mouth reveal. In awe

I sit, dazzled, glazed, until the claw

Of doubt creeps out to unseal the door

Where the hidden goblins congeal and  store

the deep, despairing pain I’ll feel if anymore

Of this mote in my eye unseals.

The motein my eye conceals the flaws

Of all you do, the lying, the deals, and more

As your tentacle fingers steal food from the poor

Lawyers connive, in suits and heels, to pour

Fire waves fed with kerosene, and ravens caw

At tent towns under darkness seal. And when I saw

If I saw, through tears, the movie reel with music score

Of Truth in memory and Justice to heal, this festering sore

As the mote in my eye unseals.

Unemployment

I am a feral dog fighting over rancid meat.

Scared, wild, hungry.
Sniffing, snarling. Stay away!
All slowly dying.

You think we’re human?
No, poverty took us down
to woods alleys graves.

Invisible now,
feel their cold breath on your neck,
hear their echo howls.

Naegleria Fowleri [Brain Parasite]

"Work gives life meaning, a sense of purpose, makes you feel your day was worth something."

Crashes in my head, tide roiling over the boardwalk, pulling human detritus out to mid-sea where passing cruise ships will wonder just how THAT got out there, turn the panaceas into so much white noise.

Work locks the demons in the closet, skinny fingers claw under the edge, desperate to reach the doorknob so they can come out and guide me to the TECO oven and sing me a lullaby , perchance to dream of happier days.

Secret Life of an American Wife

Secret Life of an American Wife
Surrounded by secrets-What are we hiding, anyway?
I know, I know what lurks in the hearts of all
and it is not evil, not anything that exciting or creative, no
it is fear
it is resignation
it is past hope, devoid of redemption
See! That one over there? 
He lives behind Walmart, in the truck he bought, used, when he finished high school.
Her? She skips her insulin and lunch was dumpster diving.
The greyhair across the room? She drives without insurance and will be relieved when they repossess.
Young man with frayed jeans? He moved back in with his parents and her sister and her kids.
But they all smile and pretend and make like they’re going to work and class and and and
and oh my, yes, education and integrity are so important, of course, yes sir, I will, thank you, and we all want more of this and and and
I know their secrets, how close, shoulders burning, white fingertips clutching at the precipice, they are to falling. I know.
I have secrets of my own.

Justice, Justice Thou Shalt Pursue

     "Momma, Momma, I didn’t mean it, Momma. I don’t know..."
     My girl stands there, holding a rag doll, a muddy rag doll that used to be my light, my angel, my joyful noise in the morning, in her hands.
     "Momma, I think I broke it. Can you fix it, Momma? Can you? You fix everything, Momma. Can you? Please?"
     I stare at the flat eyes, greyed skin, fingerless nails. I, who rewired lamps, cleared elbows, soldered cracked engine blocks, I, who fix just about anything, I knew I couldn’t fix this. No one could fix this, not even God. No one.
     I shake my head.
     "Momma, please, Momma. Can’t you try? I don’t know who else to ask, Momma."
     I shake my head again, so cold except for the urine I realized was streaming down my leg.
     "Momma, help me. You can, you have to, Momma."
     The uneven plaster on the wall snags my shirt and keeps me upright while I shake my head. I watch the spinning colors behind my eyelids. I cannot look at what is in front of me.
     "Momma, if you can’t fix it, can you make it go away? Momma?"
     I swallow and nod yes.

The Meaning [lessness] of Life

One more in a long line of one mores
Aphorisms swirl through the brain, trite and treacle,
knitting a shawl that wouldn’t keep a newt warm
No, not even a newt
There is so much rejection before "I can’t take it anymore" sets in good and hard
So good and hard all I want is to be amontilladoed in
before I hear dirges of accept and utilize, accept and utilize
Accept and utilize is a curse, not an inspiration
before the good cop bad cop shuffle has me confessing to crimes
I haven’t even heard of and couldn’t imagine

If I turn it inside out, struggle, nails claw chalkboard, to make this another learning experience
I am too old for this BS anyway
But if I do-
There is a truism, that fishing is like life
Not the cast your reel and you will surely catch something
Not even the teach a man-or woman-to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime
but my own variant,
My own, "If I don’t do what I’ve always done, I’ll get something I haven’t already got"
Maybe

Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for life
There is no bait
There is no hook
There is a broken reel
The ocean is so dense with salt, so full of tears, it cannot sustain life
So teach me to fish, hookless, baitless, broken
Let me cast my reel into barren water and watch me pull in a 1978 Bridgestone tyre
Watch me

Amabo te, fame deliria. Videro finem, exitum...
Da mihi piscis, piscis, amabo te. Lac humanus beneficii, amabo te.
Just give me a fish, just for now, to fill my mouth with sweet
calm the spasms for a little while
feed me enough for today, I won’t ask again tomorrow
I know I’ve worn out whatever welcome I had

Amabo te. I am the chum. Please.
　
Even if life is perfect in chance, in equity, in fairness,
[Who said life was fair, anyway?]
all the skills/training/certification/experience
when chance or unspoken paradigm intercede
and move a half meter to my left for the catch du jour
while all around, dozens doing pretty much similar with similar get
nothing
again

Life is a banquet, but most poor fools are starving,
while mouse rejected crumbs litter the table
and the Maid of Honor, never a bride, is the designated driver of a limo,
gas tank hovering on empty, who can’t even numb the hurt with Patron


translation:
Please, I am delirious with want. I see the end, the final end...
Give me a fish, a fish, please. The milk of human kindness, please.

Ropes and Ties that Bind

Every rope wants to be a noose
they lie there, so politely curled in on themselves
just waiting
I’ve watched them
when they think no one is looking
just past my peripheral vision
casting a shadow
as they test the ceiling rafters

Life Beyond the Blowtorch

Three icebergs float in my veins, sleet attached to steel like white cells attacking virus,
floating there as long as I've been floating here, away from my other life.
Metal worked crosses mark their passage
blood broken glass sheared fiberglass are visas to hostile territory.
Every day for so long I didn't see even them
except from the corner of my eye.
Tonight, three years on, I'm glad the street lights are out.
I'm glad its too dark to see the teddy bear menagerie flower garlands
and boxes of broken chocolates, creme filling removed by various feral beasts,
homage on the median.
But the streetlight comes on just as I hit the underpass.
Spotlight on trois prei deux.
Baby, take a bow and exit stage right

Modern Labor Saving Life

How did they do it, get it all done, before all the labor saving devices came about?

Did they have a more integrated life, living more fully in the here and now,
different sets of priorities, fewer priorities and calls on their time
or was it the half-empty bottle of tequila on a high up shelf
that got replaced every other Thursday?

Fifteen minutes of Fame or Maybe Less I Hope

She has this ‘thing' for vegetables. No, she's not a vegetarian or vegan or, god forbid, one of those weirdo raw foodies, smug in their disdain and ecoclaims, driving miles and miles in their itty-bitty hybrids to pick up ugly organic produce.

Segue: I don't care how ecofriendly your car it, driving eighty miles round trip is not green except for the auto industry. You might get 55 mpg, but driving still releases fluorocarbons and rubber particles and emissions, nocturnal and otherwise, and causes wear and tear on the asphalt/concrete/dirt roads way in excess of walking to the corner grocery store. You just doesn't see the bigger picture, but why should you? Your telescopic mirror reflects the narrow sanctimony of your own world, which is fine, just fine, and excuse me for screaming.

Anyway, she has this ‘thing' for vegetables. She likes to find heirloom breeds, what was lost and now is found. They're knobby, colorful, deformed when compared to the usual supermarket beauties, but she arranges them on hand thrown plates or wooden canoes or in blown glass bowls and drizzles them with bottled low fat bleu cheese dressing, pasty, chunky inedible crud that it is, or sprays them with imported first press rapeseed oil. Then, she snaps photos of her ‘art,' like those food porn writers everyone is so fond of, oohing and ahhing over fruit waxed to a tenth of its life, instead of the free website blogger she is in reality, ignored even, no, especially, by her friends and family.

Until she switches from bottled drek to handmade aioli. Aioli, made from garlic mashed with a mortar and pestle, whisked with vinegar, an egg yolk and a pinch of mustard until light yellow and thick, transferred to a blender and the olive oil added one clear, green drip at a time, finished with a dash of sea salt and one single grind of white pepper.

She plates her garden glories and this delicate mayonnaise variant, kicks that food porn up to notches previously unknown and hooks herself a book deal, with the requisite guest appearances on Oprah, FoodTV, followed by interviews in Cuisine and the New York Times Style Section. Carrots; new red potatoes; eggplants Italian, Japanese and white; various gourds and squashes; alliaceae from shallots to leeks to scallions to vidalia; broccoli rabe and all its cruciferous cousins flexing their muscles; mushrooms, bold and dreamy. All these, anthropomorphized into a triple X of desire under the cornstalks.

Man, I hate that bitch.

Holocaust Pantry

Eighteen cans of lima beans
Thirty-six rolls of paper towels
Stacks of tuna
Four can openers, none of them electric
A whole case of powdered milk
Blankets
Fire extinguisher
44 and ammo
Lots of ammo
Matches
Candles
A framework of five gallon jugs of water
Paper pens pencils
Hibachi grill
A 3 quart and a 5 quart pot
Two cartons of pasta, sealed in plastic
A door that looks like part of the wall
Because you never know.

What Once was Whole

It was, instantly, an alien place, devoid.
I was afraid,
not of what I'd find,
of what was here,
but what was not.
Not any longer.
The air was damp and too warm, shuttered feeling,
despite the hum and click of the air conditioner,
loud in abandonment.
I look around. Bookcases, knitting, kitchenware.
Shoes. Walker. Wheelchair.
Gauze pads and Betadine.
I calculate how many boxes I'll need
to empty this already empty place.

Just Another Night in Paradise

It's a slow night, here
Few patrons to pay patronage to those seeking accolades
If not money, support, stipends, then at least applause
I stare out the window, restless
When can I leave, when can I leave
Cold air blows on my thighs.
They'll be warm later.
Personal heating blanket will wrap around them later.

All My Roads Pt 7

"From Orlando, take I4 east." Take it until you can't go any further, until you've gone off the interstate, off the road, off the sand and right into the ocean.

Take the ocean until you hit land again. That may be Greenland or Africa or the UK or somewhere else. It really doesn't matter where you end up exactly, as long as you keep moving, heading east into the land of the rising sun, that golden orb which blinds you if you gaze at it too intently.

Not all things that glitter are gold. Some are dross, base metal, some are pyrite, fool's gold, and some are, well, some just are. Glitter, that is. Some things that glitter are just glitter, little flecks of metal you can stick on valentine's or birthday card with Elmer's glue, or sprinkle in your hair to catch the strobe of a disco ball. I learned that long ago, glitter isn't necessarily gold, during my infatuation, my transition time with hamelech malchai hamlocheim, the king of king of kings, the man who would be king, king in his own mind and universe, anyway, that was for certain, and for a blaze, as long as it takes a match to strike and burn, king of mine, ruling my emotions with a toreador's flourish, ole!

If you go long enough, past the ocean, past the first landfall, still moving east, always east, past the oared ships of the Aegean, remnants of a mighty kingdom now sunk beneath the sands and waters of time and tide which wait for no man or woman either, covering memories with salt dust while the holder of those memories wonders if it's safe to blink, you find a greater landmass.

Keep on east, snows and desert, hop a ride on a camel or an elephant, take a train or three, Orient Express, Tibet Express, bullet train, heading east right across the Bering Strait. Look for that overland passage Prester John spoke of, that Sir John sought, the one that crushed the Erebus and filled all with Terror. Or maybe, instead, risk everything with the absurd passion of the besotted and shoot south right off the tip of Africa and set yourself up for a repeat of Shackleton, the ever rising sun now a shadow gazing over your left shoulder, shading everything you do, casting darkness alternating with blue glare so sharp you can't even see your own hands as they work. Maybe you'll be crushed as I was crushed, as my endurance was repeatedly crushed by the ever shifting pack ice I couldn't and can't escape, that I carry with me as my boon companion, still.

Anyway, look for that overland passage, the opening in the sea ice, quick, quick, and maybe you'll escape before it grinds you down and turns you so far around there is no north or south or west anymore, just east, east, east. Keep moving even though north is south now and you're so far from the equator you have to zigzag back to your point or place of beginning, if that matters.

"Take I4 east."

Or you could just take it east until you find a turn off that takes you home.

You can find a home.

You can make a home.

Your home can be anywhere or anything or anyone.

Because some things that glitter are gold, 24K, warm to the touch, reflecting your own affection back to you, and soft enough to reveal your own fingerprints when you press your hand down on it, your personal tattoo, brand, mark, malleable enough to spin into a cloak you can pull around and use to keep out the chill of setting suns.

Some roads lead you home.

Pop Tart

Pressing down the lever to the toaster, waiting for the smell of sugar and warm jam to fill the room with morning sweetness, she frowned. Pop-tarts were the only real sweetness she ever found in this kitchen lately, in the morning. In the afternoon and evening, too, most days. Sweetness here was forced or Splenda fake.

Used to be, steaming pots of tea scented the air. Measuring cups of flour and milk, eggs and a dash of cinnamon, all beaten together, puffed on the griddle. But that was then and this was now. That was the way Saturdays used to be, before she had to move in with Clueless Aunt Shari and all those annoying stray cats she fed, before Mummy went away and everything fell apart. It felt like so long ago already and so forever coming up, even though she knew, KNEW, it was only a few months, maybe a year or two, and in the meantime, they had internet and webcam sometimes, snail mail or phone calls now and then, so they'd manage, they would, her and Clueless Aunt Shari, they would, until Mummy came back and everything would be okay and they could live together again.

So for now, she had an aunt who bought her every damned microwavable, single serving, convenience food they advertised on TV instead of cooking, even something simple like mac and cheese in a box or canned soup, or even just plain asking, ‘What do you want? What do you like? Are you hungry-hungry or would you rather just have cinnamon toast?'

Her aunt knew how to cook, she just didn't care to do it. They'd eaten at Shari's lots of times, dinners and lunches and cupcakes and fancy colored drinks in glasses with umbrellas and olives for the grown-ups and flourescent cherries for her. Only thing, each of those were special occasions or holidays or sorta specials anyway, not everyday. Everyday was work and hurry and homework and school and feed the cats and no time to do the laundry, ‘I'll just pick you up another shirt on the way home', and pages to turn and trying not to be fussy but it was so hard and she missed Mummy so bad.

"I miss her, too."

Well, she had snaps because she was just a kid and a kid missing her Mummy got snaps over a lady missing her sister.

The toaster popped and she put the charred around the edge pastries on a plate, poured a glass of water, no milk again, no juice either, and sat down, flicking on the TV. Mummy played CDs in the morning, ‘nothing good on, nothing we need to see this a.m. Let's just listen to some... some... How about this, it's zydeco/Japanese/French/creole? Yeah, that's good. If we can't understand whatever it is they're singing, we can really concentrate on the music, right, honey? Hey, is that a zither/calliope/hurdy-gurdy/shawm? How often you hear one of those, hon?'

Another repeat of some stupid, perfect, packaged life, kids show where everyone had a nice haircut and house and real dinners and money for whatever they wanted and it all ended in a happy free-for-all in twenty-two minutes or so. She clicked the power button on the remote. If it was a weekday, she could go to school. Today, she'd have to be cheerful, anything Aunt Shari suggested, she'd say, ‘Sounds good there, Aunt Shari. Let's do it!' even if she'd rather have needles in her eyes.

Shari walked in, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and leaned against the counter. "Hey, honey, you up so early? It's only 8:15, what are you doing up? You eat? Good." She glanced down at her plate, surprised to see that both Pop-Tarts were gone. She'd eaten them both? When had that happened?

Shari scooped out coffee and poured water through the coffee maker. "I am so glad I don't have to perk coffee. I remember when your Momma and I were maybe your age, perking coffee for your grandparents. It sounded great, smelled great, but drinking it, well, that was something else again, always a surprise: strong, weak, grounds all over the place." Shari patted the stainless steel appliance. "This thing, same taste every single time. It's a miracle."

She tensed up, here it comes.

"So, babycakes, what you want to do today? We got the whole weekend ahead of us, lots of time for fun and yeah, we got some chores, gotta get some of that special diet cat chow, but we'll have time to catch a movie or go to the library or do puzzzles or or or"

Or anything at all except what she really wanted.

The Rime of the Ancient Bicyclist

See! Here! I have an
albatross upon my head.
Not only there, but
around my neck, too,
squeezing the breath out...