My Bio

Home          

Poetry Doctor        

Writers Unlimited

Laureate's Page

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

   CAMOUFLAGE

   FOR KATHLEEN WHO DISLIKES W.C.W.

   AT THE INSTITUTE FOR SLEEP

   TOUGH KID

   GRAY SUMMER WEEKEND

   FALL SHOWER

   PECONIC

   BOSNIAN CHILDREN PLAYING

RANDOM BEAUTY

Some can't admit the randomness of beauty,

as if a clover's perfect crown should need

a reason.  Others see gods at work in every

season, heroes personified in stars.

I have a quarrel with religion, imposing

order on things better left alone.

Honeysuckle is its own revelation,

its sweetness the  perfect perfume.

I'll  take chaos over counting angels--

Columbine, clematis, abundant

at roadside.  Who needs Deuteronomy

or Numbers?  Beauty transcends all laws.

THE COLOSSAL ACCIDENT

The colossal accident of

our existence makes you,

asleep in a bunk bed

across the hall, all

the more a mystery.

I half believe a Buddhist

monk who died just

when your heart began

to beat has been reborn

in you.  I half believe

only the very dumb

think there's a soul.

Your small cry for "Dad'

stirs me from my sleep

like the trumpet that

will raise the dead.

All you need is my

quiet shout "I love you,'

to fall back to sleep.

Now I'll stay awake till

moonset, meditating

on life's meaning.

Not to worry--we all

catch up on sleep. 

WHAT PHILOSPHERS DON'T KNOW  

Today a freezing sky

contradicts itself

with too-bright sun. 

A pencil line of jet

trails five miles high.

A quiet rush of wind

moves leafless maples,

wintered black pine.

What we can see,

says Aristotle, can be

quantified and named.

What we can see,

says Plato, is but a dream. 

Into this picture, introduce

a big belly, freshly showered;

warm breasts ready to nurse--

a landscape of shiny skin, 

forests, caves. If I were

a philosopher I would say

what matters, but for now,

before this moment passes

let's make love.

A GUIDE TO URBAN BIRDS  

1.  Parking lot Gulls

They preen beside puddles

squawking over dumpster tidbits.

Mother gull astride a paper nest.

Young gulls defending their territory

defined between white parking lines.

Old gulls like sailors too tired

to go to sea.

2.  Highway Hawks

The crows may leave the meadows

to pick at a recent roadside

kill.  Why should they bother

with field mice, harder now to find?

Here's fast food for any bird.

Only, a hundred feet above,

just at the edge of a pine

grove, a hawk still spans

the sky, waiting for a movement

he can identify.

3.  Dump Swallows

Yes, gulls, circling noisily

above a dozer as it spreads their

dump-truck dinner.  Yes, pigeons,

perhaps refugees from city streets,

cooing in a quieter corner.

And also two swallows

on a chain link, trying

to decide which home to buy.

ANGER

"Handle your anger,' they say,

as if I'm into Buddhist virtues

or anger is a pot with a wood

dowel for a handle waiting

to cook soup.  Well  brew me

some anger stew.  Haven't  you

heard: "If you're not  outraged

you're not paying attention?' 

See, I'm not talking angry,

frustrated, fist-pounding,

fuck ‘em all.  I'm talking

productive, give ‘em hell,

do-something-about-it angry. 

I'm talking get-these-idiots-

out-of-my-life angry.  That's

what I want.  Fewer fools

who cut  me off after

a half hour's hold.  Fewer

sympathetic bureaucrats saying 

"You're absolutely right

but there's nothing I can do.'

Fewer people who think

they know what's best for me,

telling me "Go placidly amid

the noise & haste.'  Give me

200 Watts and mega-speakers. 

Blow those bastard off the map!

LASSITUDE  

For stupidity there is no excuse.

Insincerity is a sin.

But lassitude, shouldn't it

be understood? Slow clerks,

sullen sales persons,

sorry waiters serving

thumb in the soup.

The rich have

vindictiveness. 

The poor, revenge. 

But for middle class,

lassitude is justice

exacted slowly, slowly

like a leaking

tire and no spare.

Let the clerics deal with

matters of the soul.

Phenomenologists phenomenologize.

Lassitude is all that's left

for the eviscerated common man.

EVERY BABY

beckons, its cry my need

to see the helplessness

in me set free.  No matter

someone else's kin,

I want the child to smile

carry everything from candy

and toys to tricks to make

a baby sleep.  Open

a nursery, study pre-

school, adopt, I should

be someone's mother

but am just by myself.

THE DEAD OF KINGS PARK

The dead of course remain,

in unmarked graves in obscure

corners, those who died

from neglect, experiments,

a fellow patient or attendant hands.

If you deny it, I'll say I've seen

their bones in dreams,

can lead you to them.

But what of others, driven out

for lack of love, to save a buck,

to prove a point, pills in hand.

No honeymoon weekend home,

the iron gates opened to a world

of ironies: panic, longing for

the institutional lives they lived.

See them on a corner

in the once-rich neighborhood,

redlined, SSD checks in hand,

wondering what. The lifers,

the walkers, the ones medicine saved,

but in their minds as forgotten

as the dead of Kings Park .

DECEMBER 31, 1999

I am trying to make something

memorable of this sunset

for my daughter Aileen,

just seven.  This is the last

light of day of year of century.

"Millenium?'   She doesn't

understand that word,

a thousand times too big

for her.  But she indulges me

as I explain, forced to consider

things like Christ's birth and who

made the calendar.  She is more

sure of her two-wheeler, perched

just too high on the 20'pink

frame trying to balance

and I root for her on her

wobbling path.  Look!
She's doing it just

as the sun disappears

behind a pink edge of cloud.

JANUARY THAW

Matted grass thaws

in my backyard, where soon

I'll tune the sit-down mower

to start my acre trek, complaining

how fast the lawn grows even

as I water, fertilize and lime. 

For now, all gardeners can rest

as January turns a path to mud. 

What optimist imagines

emerald green?  What fool

envisions tulips budding

months before it's spring? 

I am mulching clippings

in my mind, the warmth

of their decay my winter fuel.

THE GOD IN THE DETAILS

the god that looks

out for you is the part

of you that knows

there is joy in life

the structured details

of redecorating the house

in blue, in cleaning

for company so thoroughly

you move the couch god

is in the specifics the devil

doesn't care lets laundry

pile up doesn't brush hair

eats mostly junk food

smokes rationalizes drinks

god plans the day doesn't

need a shopping list buying

red white and blue dahlias

in early March to bloom

by the 4^th of July your

god (and mine) doesn't

sweat the small stuff

as if any moment is small

so that when you spill

soup hurrying to finish

and the stain is even in

an embarrassing spot

on a thigh the sudden

heat is a blessing the blush

is a blessing the fleeting

thought of what strange things

(incontinence) others may

think is a blessing and you

laugh to your god and give

thanks for this humorous existence

DISEASES

What better than a body,

the fleshy joke in which

we all reside, to remind

the mind that nothing lasts.

Six billion souls will leave

their corpse behind all

in the next 100 years--

peacefully or by violence,

by illness, accident, as if 

some cosmic puppeteer

really has a plan. Poets

and scientists are trained

to see disease as natural

and predictable as festering

produces toxins or penicillin.

Honey, garlic, ginger;

nature or nurture;

Western or alternative--

it isn't a contest. Wait

long enough, wellness,

disease are just the same.

MUSHROOMS

These things that pop up

variously where you haven't

even spread the compost,

perhaps the last sign

of the oak stump cleared

for the house.  Startling

white, bulbous and yellow,

disturbingly gray fingers

clawing out of earth,

a mechanism vaguely

viral, growing where it

shouldn't, asking for ex-

cision--a fear that

rot will be revealed: fine

shards, coarse meat,

a tiny spot that might grow

back.  No chemo required,

just a stiff kick that spreads

their innards across the lawn.

MILL TOWN

They've made malls and condos

from mills where the girls

worked seventy-hour weeks,

weaving. Those who left

the farm and milking only

escaped spindles and gears

if the manager picked one

to marry.  How many toiled

where the shops now peddle

latte and Gucci?  But do not

scold the gentry.  There,.

by the parking lot replacing

the tenements, by the docks

where cotton arrived and cloth

shipped out, children are

in a playground, laughing.

WAITING

There's always another excuse

waiting for life to begin

the lawn needs mowing

(assuming seeding

was the first excuse) then

the garden weeding once

the spring is squandered

on annuals (because perennials

mean hope). Let's not mention

having kids, non-stop feeding

and a sentence, sixteen to twenty-six

hard time, depending on your

progeny's asserting independence.

Procrastination is a momentary

fascination, finding a way

to blank out the screen

or break the printer.

Postponements are inevitable.

But hardcore waiting is an art,

a philosophical stance

akin to Sartre or Beckett.

Waiting for a quiet moment

can pass for meditation.

Add a smile and patience

is a virtue.  Holding one's breath

is clearly spoiled and a Mexican

standoff now has uncomfortably

anti-Hispanic connotations. Wait-  

ing is what I'm into now, even

as I speak. Eventually (a word

we waiters enunciate with fervor)

inspiration will come followed

surely by success. Until then

I will content myself with

surly customers and hope

for a suitable tip.

AN HONEST STRANGER  

(for the Port Jefferson town fathers and fire chief)  

When the cop awakens me

banging on the front door

below my bedroom

he asks angrily why I

didn't answer my phone.
"Get dressed,' he says

"A house you own is burning.'
"Why?' I ask. "I can't put out

the fire.'  "Don't you care?'

he nearly grabs me. 

Ah, but there's a history: 

It was left vacant, gasoline

contamination from

a nearby station.  The day

they confirmed it, the fire chief

said it could explode, then drove

away saying "Hire a guard.

It's your problem.'

No one could live there. 

The authorities didn't care

even after they pumped

20,000 gallons of unleaded

gas from the front lawn. 

"I'll deal with  it tomorrow,'

I tell the cop and go back to bed. 

Later, the insurance company

uses my "indifference' to say
I torched the place.  It's dangerous

to be an honest stranger.

THE FULL MOON  

The full moon maddens the blue jays

squawking good morning at one a.m. .

If birds can be fools, what chance for me,

hot with hopes for a peaceful summer

unable to dream or sleep?  There, on the lawn

the largest grub I have ever seen,

its fat, white body fully fueled.

No one feeds more voraciously than I,

finding the secret insects burrowing

in my backyard, sucking them passionately.

Does a bird have a choice? Can nature

resist?  This heat at last, 90˚in May

after so many cold nights, lusterless days.

Come on you crazy jays, scratch with me

in the moon-shadows of my back yard.

Let's devour these delicacies while we can.

LAST ROSE  

Peach colored, double petals

open to a bright Long Island

noon , blooming from the bush

we bought last Pesach glad

for winter's passing soon.  

Bring it in before it freezes;

place it in a crystal vase.

Watch it crown by candles

kindled praising a miracle of light.

OBJECTIVE CORRELATIVES  

The alltoocasual siren rush volunteers

to car crash fire whatever harries us

pitythepoormonster mankind

and we at tea at piano cellphoning

phonating through our days

interpolating into Icarus scenes

theskyisfalling the skyisfalling

as if it would matter to be mindful

to what purpose pay attention

rubberneck the couple bleeding

at a rearender keep the scanner on

to follow EMTs where but to our own

penultimate hour where we watch

triage the insertion of an IV the popup

of a gurney wheeling us away

as someone else weeds dandelions

on at last a warm spring day.

THANATOPSIS  

What calls the title

to mind as I walk

on a mild March

afternoon--

the sound of a jet,

the rush of cars,

hushed voices

of couples passing? 

Was the poem about

life or death, vanity

or fame?  They tell us

literature

is important. 
Brushed by

this warm, damp

breeze, I wonder.

LEARNING  

Some things learn

not to grow:

                   the goldfish

in its two quart bowl,

never the golden carp

coveted in the fishpond.

                  a small deer

in the Florida Keys

hiding among bent pines

by little quays.

                  that philodendron

in an eight inch terra-

cotta pot, never to dominate

buttressed trunks of banyan.

Still, stunted 

celebrates survival.

MARCH IN RED SQUARE  

Okay, I was never

next to Kruschev looking

on, but always close

to him, ogling big missiles,

oohing with great pride.
See, there in the second row,

almost close enough for our

hands to clasp as the official

bulbs were popping. I wanted

the world but he gave me

only his bare, balding head

and bad breath all night in bed.
Cranky old men don't make

good lovers except, dying,

he whispered my secret name:

Rosebud.  Now I am a faded

footnote in history: Madam

Rusheskorva, consort, KGB,

and rumored lover of him.

Only, on May 1^st, I still

daydream of big missiles,

slumped in my lawn chair

here in West Palm.

WORKING TIDES

Water rushes

to fill the marsh:

a circlet of salt

along the reeds,

the rejuvenating

scent of iodine.

BEACH POEM

The erratic strut of an infant

with blue plastic shovel.

The halting stride of an old man

brown wood cane pushing through sand.

The erotic sway of a young woman

red rubber raft on hip.

The lazy pan of a middle-aged man

astride a straw beach mat.

THE LECTURE ON INNER PEACE

It's a nickel a minute as I sit,

my parking meter ticking.

I've paid to hear a talk

on inner peace.  "In life,'

the master says, "more

is less.'  My house, even

empty, also has its price

(twelve cents a minute

average for a month). 

The master says "Material

things are nothing.'

The mystery for me is how

the phone, silent so much,

adds up.  "Listen

to the silence within,'

he tells us, encouraging

us to feel our breath.  It's

the electric bill that scares

me half to death.  I'd like to take

this fellow out for drinks,

a burger, talk, but I'm sure

he'd be too busy. Then,

there'd be the ancient

question: "Who's paying?'

SOCCER

What genius invented soccer?

Hefty calves plying muddy fields.

Any sport requiring the head

to stop hard flying objects--duh!
And who is the fool screaming,

"Goal! Goal! Goal!' Imagine

a couple hours and a 1-1 tie?
Duh times two.

                             We're stuck

with baseball, the boring boys

of summer.  We're hooked

on basketball, a hyper-

glandular parade.  Wrestling?
Stupidity.  Hockey? Stupidity on ice.

Football?  Steroids in uniform.

But soccer?  Exceptionally dumb!

PEOPLE WHO  CAN WATCH TV WITHOUT FEELING GUILTY

I'm jealous. For me it's this compulsion

to do something, not just watch--

like mend a broken pot or roll

spare pennies.  With boxing

I miss the knockout,  reading.

Talk shows, I never look

the speakers in the eyes.

Then there's the 101 cable channels

for which I pay umptididdle bucks

per month for what?  Reruns,

some news, the local weather?

Or could it be TV inspires me?

Sure I could love Lucy but

right now I'm writing you this poem.

ONCE IN A WHILE A PROTEST POEM

Over and over again the papers print

the dried-out tit of an African woman

holding her starving child.  Over

and over, cropping it each time to one

prominent, withered tit, the feeble

infant face.  Over and over to toughen

us, teach us to ignore the foam turned

dusty powder on the infant's lips,

the mother's sunken face (is cropped)

and filthy dress.  The tit remains;

the tit held out for everyone to see,

reminding us only that we are not so hungry

ogling the tit, admiring it and in our

living rooms, making it a symbol of starving

millions; our sympathy as real as silicone.

RADOVAN KARADZIC

(wanted for crimes against humanity)

I sat with you over

Turkish coffee,

strategized poetry,

translation, literary

tradition.  How could I

miss the slaughter

in your eyes?  Your

tweed jacket, the briar

pipe clenched in your

teeth.  A psychiatrist,

gentleman, poet.

Perhaps when you

introduced a colleague

as an Albanian though

he lived and worked

his lifetime with you.

Perhaps when you

checked the diacritical

marks on every name:
Ĉ= Serbian

Ć=Croatian

Ċ= Macedonian

a phonetic list of who

should live or die.

A HAPPY SLAVE IS STILL A SLAVE

( China receives permanent most-favored nation status)

Money can't unmake a tyrant:

Deng Xiaoping declaring "It's

honorable to grow wealthy.'

Now a billion souls are slaves

and we trade decency for dollars.

They have no free speech or press,

no workers' rights or freedom 

to associate.  No right to assemble

or worship or even travel.

No rule of law or rights in court. 

Ask young students--they'll say,

"We're just like Americans.

All we care about is money.'

Maybe that's all they're taught,

but we should know better.

THE CHINA DAILY

The readers of the China Daily

bend in the breeze like ripe rice stalks.

As darkness descends on crowded streets

requiring retreat within small cells,

still some bring home the China Daily

pronouncing to wife mother father kids

reassuringly, beneath a smiling image of Deng Xiao Ping,

the China Daily tells us, comrades,

"To be rich is glorious. It's China 's time."

THE CRICKET

With a preemptive leap

through my front door

the cricket is singing

in my study.  Hopeless

lover,  he doesn't know

it's his last song, and I

won't be sad.

Who asked him to visit?

Who'll pay for his room,

his critical care as he

expires by the radiator?

Shall I hirer a shrink

to find the cricket child

within his hardening

carapace?  I can't stand

whiners.

I understand

suicide but am not

inclined to risk assisting.

He'll chirp to death

soon enough and I'll

sleep better.

WE LIVE

we live ordinary lives denying

they are flying over them

six miles high every inch aspires

to be owned acres of egos

gardens of roses double petals

kennedy roses mine are

better mine are mine

try to ground them

you're accused of being

too perfect your mmpi score

says you think you're always

right what if you are always

right what if you are

that's pathological

try teaching better un-

teaching everything you know

they know it's useless even

as you try and their eyes

glass over and it's time

for a break give me a break

give me a break a break

if you know the secret of

life don't tell genital vegetable

mineral for gods' sake don't or

you're punished with a torn

liver or a large rock to roll

branches withdrawn no fruit

if you have the answer answer

take my word for it honestly

the truth be told here's how

it is i know if someone settling

a pillow or throwing off a shawl

we're back to that beginnings

endings all been done before

done before before

but as surely as pain is

pleasure pleasure is

pain it's still worth

doing again.

STRAWBERRIES

Cow manure was all it took,

and a soft bed of straw

surrounding each plant.

By mid-spring, the tendrils.

Late May, simple white flowers. 

July in New England ,

strawberry month and I

in business, picking

for five cents a quart,

sunrise to nearly noon   

when I'd change from

dungarees with wet

brown knees, and wash

the red juice from my

hands.  I'd rush to the triple

feature where I passed

on salty popcorn, jelly

beans and coke, a quart

of perfect berries already

churning in my belly

before the final chase.

THE HEAT OF DAY

A dry energy drains

winter's anxieties.

What slept in earth

has risen, daylilies

variegated proof of miracles

beyond the singing parish

the ministrations of cheerful

priests.  Nothing more sure

than the heat of mid-day

and traffic cued at stop signs

after mid-morning mass.

APOLOGIES

(for Robert)

We've lugged all day down to

the last. We'll leave the old

cabinet, the chandelier sans

several crystals.  You hand me

the big framed mirror, kept last

for the rented van.  "That was

my aunt's who raised me,' you say.

I place it carefully atop the load.

But when the tailgate opens,

no more aunt, no other kin, all

prematurely gone.  No more

mirror, only fragments on the wet

blacktop and me saying I'm sorry

for all the things we promise but can't do.

BOYCOTT

The cafeteria women are

waiting for us at the gate

with "Boycott' signs.

I've seen them for years

at work with a kind word

if I'm tired, some extra 

fries when I pay.  Now

their contract is up and

the boss has replaced them.

"No one cares,' one says.

"I'm fifty. Who'll hire me?'

It's one thing to give

sympathy, another to go

hungry. But when I

enter the lunchroom,

the new help looks nervous.

They should be. I leave

the food trays steaming,

go out to walk the line.

FOR LINDA OPYR

All my joking about you

topless in the photo of you

and your older brother

at five and nine in a backyard

kiddy pool and how cute

your grin, barely noticing

him--Gregory, squinting

into a bright July sun.

I didn't know--that he

was dead a year from then

at ten.  How you must be

post-traumatic even now,

the photo on your book

cover, an act of bravery,

the poetry unapologetic

therapy.  No wonder

you win prizes when

your hero, your heart

was driven off to hospital

to die.  How your words

mean more to me now

studying the sepia photo

of you at five and your

lost brother Gregory.

EQUITABLE DISTRIBUTION

(for Raz)

He videotapes her leaving--

in case, for evidence--after

seven years of mostly arguing,

except for the uncontested divorce.

Her father pulls up in an aging van.

She packs every dish and pot

and towel and sheet until the van

settles to one side on tired springs. 

He doesn't care, and doesn't

have to hold her hand once more

but does, putting down the video

camera a moment to grasp her thin

fingers, wish her a safe trip "home,'

acknowledging theirs wasn't

for all those years.  Then he resumes

taping with one eye aiming as they

drive off. The eye not looking

through the lens surveys what's left. 

When he re-enters his twice-mortgaged,

mostly run-down house, the echo

of uncarpeted floors is louder

walking alone. The video player

is also broken but he doesn't need

a replay to be glad she's finally gone.

ROCK PEOPLE

He brings a bottle of fast-

drying glue and searches

for faces, bodies among

small beach stones,

fixing them into statues.

If it has two eyes or just

a wink. If it has a dot

of nose or pitted mouth. 

Misshapen head, seaweed

hair, crab claw for hand.

These creations from

what could be a nuisance

at any tide. Some bake

under a dangerous sun.

Others acquire oyster

ashtrays. Beach-glass

aficionados yearn

for well-cooked glass.

MIGHTY JOE  MEETS LOPEZ DE VEGA

A five o'clock shadow was like high

noon next to your face.  "Lopez

De Vega,' you'd tell me.  "Now there's

a real guy.'  What did I know,

me a freshman, and you

an ageless Grad Dog. 

In those days, there were

the undergrads, the hangers on

and graduate students--like you,

who seemed eternal.  We coined

a term for all the talent in the world

who never focused, never finished:

"Despies,'  Short for "desperados'

who stole through life,

the consummate underachievers. 

Did you know you were a Despie,

destined to be borderline famous,

like the great Lopez himself? 
Somewhere grad dogs, to this day,

still study De Vega, when he was born

when he died, the plays he wrote.

There have been billions of souls

who have lived and died, forgotten.

Perhaps some Ph.D. will write

his thesis on you and title it

"Dark Vision: Desperados

in the drama of Lopez DeVega

and Joseph Krausman.'

FOR DOCTOR FOURMAN

Even interning he was known

as the one who talked.  Now,

seated, knees akimbo,

on a low stool, he's bubbling

about his own son after

examining the eyes of a worried

father.  "You won't go blind.' 

The line in the waiting room

grows longer.  Patients

who haven't met him yet

check their watches. 

"Tell me what you want,'

he coaches.  "I want

to see my boy grow up.'  

"Don't worry, we can fix you.' 

There are miracles of modern

medicine, pharmaceuticals,

well-trained hands. But it's rare

when the doctor listens,

rarer still when he knows how

to cure with reassuring words. 

Leaving,  his patient whispers

to those seated, "Don't worry,

he's worth the wait.'

POOR-GIRL WAYS

Eunice McMullen, you lived

on Mill Street where

four-story wooden walk-ups

housed hundreds like you

in your pleated skirts,

white blouses, brown hair

banded by a single ribbon.

Your father was one

of the drunks, off work

from the factory, but your

mother was famous for

carrying home the bacon fat

from houses she cleaned

to make Mrs. McMullen's

Lye Soap, ten cents for each

grayish-green brick.

You'd sell them when you'd

go on evenings to babysit.

Forgetting how your mother

had just scrubbed and swept

you dropped crumbs on

the owner's carpet.

"There's pie in the cupboard.

help yourself.' A wedge

of apple, a glass of milk;

watching brand new TV.

The little ones tucked in,

you could explore those

secrets in the drawers.

And when they woke,

when they were wet, 

you would change them.

A little wiping with a cloth,

a finger to probe where

girls should not,

a little penis to place

between your lips.

RETIRED IN LAKEWORTH

1.

The very little lady on the large

concrete bench on South Ocean

Boulevard, a three-wheel walker,

V-handlebars with bike brakes,

her hands high, still holding on.

Her husband used to ride her

on his big motorcycle.  She'd

hug him round the middle,

close her eyes and fly.

2.

The gangly old jogger, hands

dangling hip high, hardly

faster than a walk, not just

huffing, wheezing toward

the condo where his girlfriend,

just sixty-eight, awaits--

a real looker!  He stayed strong

for his wife through her last year

of cancer.  Now she's two years gone.

3.

The retired barber by his ‘88

Fleetwood he polishes daily--

more a massage; cream

on the upholstery; whisk

broom in his pocket.  His shop

would shine with  the latest

equipment for forty-six years

until it closed when his wife passed--

but how he loves that car.

4.

Grandma paddling in a gray

one-piece and rubber flowered

cap.  The grandkids splashing

so wildly she winces.  For her,

68° is freezing but they insisted.

At least the pool is heated

and she wants to please.

How often do they visit and now

they can brag "I swam on Christmas.'

SIMPLE BLESSINGS

(for "all those who keep the earth in orbit.'

      David Leavitt, Family Dancing)

Bless Connie Townsend

who, visiting when

a cousin's son fell,

climbed the twenty

basement stairs to dial,

"His neck is probably broken. 

These things happen.'

Bless her husband,

George, a Ph.D., Divinity,

Master of Psychology,

who told the girl, sixteen,

"1 to 99, the marriage

will not last.  Get

an abortion.'

Bless the Townsends,

married for eight years,

and tow-haired Johnny

seated in his walker

as they serve the meal.

"His leukemia is in remission. 

Who will say grace?'

WALKING TO MONTAUK

(another of Paul Agostino

The roadside is littered

with fast-food wrappers,

cigarette filters.  Recycling

opportunities abound

but you didn't bring

a plastic sack, only

beef jerky and a change

of underwear in your nap-

sack, and a walking stick

carved from a cedar branch

from a bulldozed lot. 

Sixty miles is not Battan,

nothing monumental,

but you learn a dozen wild

flowers by name and

the virtue of arch supports. 

No one notices you

walking--except a dog.

WE DID DAN

We did one for Dan last night

who died about a month ago

but no one told the local news

which listed him still reading

       Poetry Tonight 8 p.m.

         Chancellor's Hall

            Dan Murray

and it was duly somber

duly weird. Tell me he's

knocking down shots

coughing his cigarette cough

in heaven. Like hell.  He's

gone and we do this

for why anyone does a wake

or funeral--for us.  Willis

was honest enough to say

how Dan got screwed

hanging out with the famous

who never helped him.

His aging former students

thanked him for their own

nonmeteoric lives.  But we

knew this Dan better than

contest judges, better than

the gods who seldom invite

mere mortal to dine.  We,

sagging fellow poets,

thinning hair, heavy max-

illary lines, stiffening slowly

toward our own last strophes

marching to the mike to read.

Then off in a crooked caravan

to the local bar where a few

folks bought shots and left

them on the bar for Dan

until the wee hours when

we couldn't pretend anymore

bullshit and we drank them

ourselves and staggered home.

SUICIDE

(Zorg zich nit. Du nicht vermissen es.)

"I want to die ,' he'd say. 

"Don't worry,' my
Grandma would answer

one or another of her

depressive sons,

You won't miss it.'

She didn't, though

fading, fading was

no way to go. 

When even warm

sun, sweet ocean's

scent doesn't work,

you may be ready

but wait, wait.

Why kill yourself?

You won't miss it.

UNCLE HARRY

It didn't take the Pope

to tell folks Harry was a saint.

He hit it off with everyone

of all religions: more than just

the perfect salesman.

Among the brothers

he was the gentle one

(another, clever; a third,

ambitious).  Harry, in their

furniture store--fine blue

suit, black hair slicked back

with style--could coach

a couple into a complete

living room after their

bedroom was set.  (Harry

gave them the ottoman.)

Even after he retired,

no one could stop his hand

from reaching in his pocket

to give his wife and kids,

relatives, even strangers

money.  Unlike King Lear,

he traded his kingdom

for love.  His only complaint:

"I'm just too busy. The kids

call all the time.' Some say

he's gone now, but somewhere

Harry's enthroned on a velour

credenza, blue suit swapped

for a cardigan his good wife

made. See him fidgeting

in his pants pocket to give

some little angel

a twenty dollar bill.

SHE VISITS ME

As I sleep in the bed above

where she slept, the bell

she'd ring for help awakens me

though even the hole for its wires

is now long gone. "Why don't you

remember happy things about me?"

she demands. "Remember how

I'd hug the letter my soon-to-be

husband wrote saying

come to America?"

Indeed she'd dance a frailech

even at eighty remembering

how a three-piece klezmer band

bragged from the synagogue

to her sister's that Esther

and Philip were married.

"I lived a Kosher life,

cooked for everyone."

Good enough to fuel

five children to successes.

"And how I loved my children!"

Her pride! Even Uncle Charlie

who died at birth she secretly

remembered.  "I only cried

because I wanted even better

for them and maybe to live

to see you married." I've told

a hundred laconic stories

about her last years, her

catalog of regrets, her fear

of pogroms even in this country.

Forty years since she is gone

and now I see more clearly

Nanny, you're right,

it was a good life,

aleha ha shalom.

NANNY

In the side yard beside

the banking you fenced

off the neighbor to plant

tomatoes.  Made dowels

like pikes to defend against

their racial slurs--"Dirty

Jew.'  Tied thick stems

with terry cloth against

hands that pushed them

down. Planted zinnias

which grew from seeds

to heady beauties though

fingers reached to pinch

some blooms. You could

have fenced higher but

something about chain-link.

Instead you circled each

plant with small mud dams

to assure watering.

With an old tin spade,

you made fruit grow.

AT THE PIANO

Every piano I play first elicits

"Yiddisha Mamma,' which is what my

own would play and sing in the accent

she otherwise never had so that I

grew up respectful of the mother

tongue if not great music.

Eight years of piano lessons

harmony chords classical repertoire

and I got to playing a brisk

Turkish Rondo, nailing the left

hand like a drum and thinking

concert hall while friends smiled.

Then the summer of serious study--

Beethoven's first Piano Concerto.

Hours and hours and of course hours

until my debut before my mother

who said "I haven't played that

for thirty years" and sight read it

better than I could.

MY OLD MAN

Ma says my old man is slowing down,

doesn't insult his brother-in-law

the way he used to.  No more

"We're leaving hungry.

Cheap son of a bitch, you

didn't even feed us.'

And sometimes he'll sit a while

without jumping up, no TV,

not a word, not even sleeping.

That's how it works, entropy.

Even the ones born all wound up

wind up loose springs.  "I never

thought I'd miss him swearing,'

Ma says.

THE OLD MARRIEDS

He lies sleeping,

head on her lap,

not less than eighty,

She, too, is old

and could not care

but she does,

caressing his hair

as he shifts, sighs.

The sun warms

his eyes. He smiles.
Sixty years

if a day, together.

Somewhere in

the next world

a house of love …

MY FATHER'S PACEMAKER

looks like a lighter in a pocket

under his very silky skin

there below his clavicle. 
I imagine wires to his heart.

I could heroize him: how

he passed out alone at home,

awoke, dressed, drove

to his doctor, only to be rushed

to the hospital. "No one

ever walked in with a heart

rate of fifteen,' the doctor said,

installing my father's pacemaker

which isn't susceptible

to microwaves, he says,

though we joke about a jolt

that could cook him.

The marvel of micro-

circuitry,  the incredibly long-lived

battery.  Will they have to cut

to change it eventually or

will my father's pacemaker

outlive him?  Oh Ronson,

fire of life.  Oh medal of honor,

oh ultimate personal computer,

do your job well.

MILDLY SUICIDAL

is like half an execution

or half an abortion.
"You're depressed,'
she says in her helpful

nursing-home voice.

"I'm not depressed,'
he says, "I'm unhappy.

Who would want to live

like this?' The catheter

that drains him, the bag

full. The rash from sitting

sitting sitting sitting sitting

and the hand that should

reach, paralyzed.  Who's

there to scratch?  Barely

able to speak, to move.

"You aren't dying of anything,'
she thinks she's reassuring,

"We can give you something.'
"To kill me,' he hopes but

instead it's stupid pills so

he sits with a grin.

AT THE SEDER IN THE JEWISH NURSING HOME

Why Passover? We want you angel

to stop this very night for mercy

do not forsake those in nursing homes

first born or not, take them.

We are waiting for you old dependable,

doer of God's work, to set us free

of choking fits and catheters,

of recalcitrant attendants, of waiting

every day for you. So don't pass over,

rather come quickly, as we've

let the lambs live and scrubbed

the doors to our rooms and will laugh

at your countenance and welcome

you even as you prey.  We pray

for you let our people go.

"WHY REMEMBER

(these things?' people ask.)

Dusk deepened into

umber illuminating

the new fall sky.

It could have been

a happy moment--

returning from

the playground,

supper waiting--

but he was bleeding,

a pattern of droplets

on his new brown

coat--ruined--

and the sun setting

over the factory,

smoke from a high

chimney catching

a last glint.  Even

hurrying didn't

stop the bleeding

or the shouts

of the boy who

hit him: "Dirty

Jew.  Kike Bastard.'

It could have been

a time machine like

the ones he read,

a scene from Germany

a few years before.

No, it was his home-

town, now, and even

a perfect sunset couldn't

stop the bleeding or

the boy shouting

at him, "Chicken shit.

Dirty Jew,' as he

hurried home to tell

his mother knowing

she would say "There's

nothing you can do.'

PILGRIMAGE

If I were going to Mecca

and the ferry sank

it would be destiny

but boarding here

by tourist shops

and Bayle's Dock

overbuilt with

convention rooms,

the trip is hardly holy.

Still, it is to home

and the aging folks

who, if they don't

believe in a deity,

did live good lives,

worthy of a pilgrimage.  

An aging traveler

wants only to nap

on the hard benches

of the Cross Sound Ferry?

HOME

If I were asked where's home

I wouldn't hesitate: Massachusetts--

cold, old, austere at least for

the Cabots and Lodges whom

I was asked to admire if not

emulate, coming, as I did from

the wrong kind.  New England's

winters are less charming

for me now. The old estates--

the Hydes, the Lynches have

crumbled, castles built on sand. 

Thirty plus years on Long Island,

when I dream it's still not home.

WHITE CARPETS

My friend in third grade's parents

put in brand new white wool

carpets and we had to take off

our shoes even in the kitchen.

Of course we weren't allowed

in the living room.  So we'd

venture to the edge to hear

"I told you, stay out

of the living room!'  A push

that propelled my friend

toward the plastic-covered

couch evoked a rush

of steps, a grab, a shake

and a shout,  "Didn't I

tell you to stay out

of the living room?'

so that we began to play

outside in any weather

even in the frozen world

of a New England winter

where one wants only

the warmth of a radiator

and a soft chair in

someone's living room.

A PLEA FOR CONFESSIONAL POETRY

I'm waiting for the poem

about his daughters, already

grown, worlds away.  DNA

connects them.  He must

feel the pull. And the son,

the golden boy he had later

in life with a woman we

thought he'd tricked. 

The precocious son--

after three fine daughters--

enough to make a liberal

sound sexist just describing him.

Where is the poem for his son?

And what about the wife, 

so frail we worried, what

with money in her family…?

Some said he was a "digger'

but it's stayed together.

I want the poem about the wife

(and the son, and daughters)

that tells the secret--of how

he creates new poems every day--

keeps creating--so maybe

I can do it myself.

NEAR DEATH

(a sonnet for Aaron Kramer)

"Do not go gentle?' Dylan missed the mark;

as if we all must think of death as dark.

I think that death's more gentle than a birth.
I've seen a light that glows beyond the earth;

but not a heaven, not Elysian Fields.

One needn't find salvation; rather, yield

to that same light that little children miss

in nurseries where doting parents kiss

their fears away indulgently.  But why?

Suppose it isn't fear that makes kids cry

but yearning for the pre-birth light they left.
Then go, good journeyman, gently cleft.

Greet death as quietly as candles burn.

From light you came. To light you shall return.

BANYANS

Banyans drop slow tendrils,

grounding to vast trunks.

The literati gather at Ernest's

house, the guest list ex-

panding with his reputation.

Wrought iron chairs,

shade of arbutus, elephant

ear.  Ernest, thinking he'd

prefer stevedores, fisherman

rollers of big cigars.

The Gulf breeze bothers

the wicker blinds. 

A flowered skirt whistles

as she leans over

a black metal rail. 

Stoking the black cat with

extra toes, Ernest foresees

his end, as surely as he will go

from port to port and mangroves

weave an island out of nothing.

FOUR TANKAS

CAMOUFLAGE

When choosing extra-

marital lovers, careful!

Pick one similar

in coloring to one's spouse

so your longings look like her.

AT THE INSTITUTE FOR SLEEP

we grow tired.  Some

have the strength to cry.  Others

lie awake, dry-eyed.

The wise rest easy under

warm light, sleeping with a smile.

GRAY SUMMER WEEKEND

If it were sunny--

mandatory barbecue, 

kids whining for beach.

Gray Sunday, threatening rain--

skip this week's yard work. Sleep late.

PECONIC

After glaciers, storms,

slow flux of tide reshaping

quiet arc of beach

persistent horseshoe crabs play

their joyous game of coupling.

FOUR HAIKUS

FOR KATHLEEN WHO DISLIKES WCW

Thirty-five pigeons

roosting on high tension lines

glow in late sunlight.

TOUGH KID

Ten-year-old, punk hair

square-shouldered swagger transformed

with Dad--little kid.

FALL SHOWER

Stainless steel sky sifts

rain through sunlight, colander

for mums and maples.

BOSNIAN CHILDREN PLAYING

In a world so cruel

a child could think a grave

is a playground.

POETRY GARDEN

I'm hauling peat moss,

sowing seed, creating

a garden from chaos.
I tear open bags, dive

elbow deep, scooping

dried cow manure. 

Look at my hands:

whose are they?  Dirt

under nails, calluses

like scales, cut knuckles

like stigmata. Where

are the poet's delicate

fingers grasping

a cut rose or pen?

Planting begonias.

DESIRE FOR LAWN

Suspend disbelief. Purchase

only the best seed, high

in bluegrass. Miniscule

in weed. Water, water,

water. For fertilizer

endless handfuls

of hope until the green

sprouts root deeply enough

to mow. Roll carefully

wearing nothing. Enjoy

the salad illusion.

SMALL PRESS PUBLISHING

"This poetry thing,' she says, "just

keeps happening,' and she also says

she is one in whom a lump was detected

and excised.  He knows four personally,

who died.  He fears she will flare as five.

Ask what makes us fester and die.

He has his own theories, tells

his two pale daughters, even

strangers, never drink tap water.

More likely, it is a cruel god.

"Poetry,' she says, "is so much

a part of life for me.'  He measures

his words as if counting iambs,

doesn't reply.  The last poet

he promised a book had no kids,

wanted "just to finish this work

to leave behind.'  He managed  

to string the job out an extra

year hoping to keep her alive. 

ROBERT FROST

would sit with his liver-spotted,

thin-skinned hands resting

on his polished cotton slacks,

and I'd sit at his feet on a carpet,

young poet at a workshop,

Amherst College lounge.

We'd read our work, talk liberally

while he smiled silently

except once I slipped a poem

over his bony knee for him

to grasp, and watched until he

pushed it back to me, silently.

Later, I asked him "Did you

like it, Sir?'  His face

composed of mostly rock and

Maine potatoes, his voice hoarse

as frost, he answered, "You don't

find your voice until you're forty.'

HOLDING THE BABY

Holding the baby,

a sleeping head close

to my lips, aroma

of shampoo, powder,

light pulsing of dia-

phragmatic breath,

a dance beneath

eyelids, a shift

of weight across

my chest, a baby

sigh, a closeness

emitted through

the skin.

THE LIFETIME CHANNEL

(for Aileen at age 7 ½)

Lately, you've watched

"The Baby Story' day

after day, barely better

than home video, with

couples attending La Maz,

seeing the OB-GYN. 

You sit through every

midwife talk until,

twenty minutes in,

after the quick yelps,

push-pushes, there's

a crown and, at last,

a birthing. If I sneak

my own peek, you're

leaning toward each

final scream.  "Why

don't they show the front?

What's happening?'
"I don't know,' I say,

to duck.  "You do too,'
you holler.  But when

you  also watch

"A Wedding Story,'

with its blond Barbie

brides, its Ken-ish blue-

eyed grooms, its token

interracial couples, you

believe me when I say

I don't know what makes

a perfect marriage.

THE TOY CREATION

Her toys are continents

on the carpet, impossible

to navigate--tectonic plates

drifting ocean floors.

I sink them into closets,

only to see them reappear, 

her creations more powerful

than mine. I'm just an archangel

with a message: "If you don't

clean up, these toys may

disappear,' but she is

god of all Barbies. 

HIS GOLDEN CHILD

"I'm God,' she declares

snatching a doll from a bath-

tub drowning.  Later, she

blocks her ears and hums

when she is reprimanded.

"Stupid Daddy.  Crazy

Daddy.  I don't have

to listen.  You do.'

Sometimes she sings

little litanies of revenge.

"I'll do what I want.

I don't need sleep.

Who needs bed.'

Faced with such powers

I surrender, brute force

no answer.  Reason,

language, fail. 

Only slow and patient

worship will do for me.

THE KISS

My daughter wants to kiss me

on the lips, thinks it's naughty,

something vaguely about sex.
I push her over-zealous lips

away. She's wet with super-

saturated spit, giggling

her seven-year-old giggle.
This new weapon, lips, is

fun enough but add her

breathy hiss, "Just one kissss'

and it's a scene from some

steamy cinema. 

     I'm always

glad for love, but never

liked wet kisses, preferring

a touch of lips, a brush of cheek,

but there's my daughter,

grinning broadly, double

dimples that were cute

when she was littler.  Now

she's just annoying, pushing

her pucker at my face

and she won't quit.  If only

she understood.

NEGATIVITY

"All your poems come from

negativity,' she pronounced

when I showed her my newest

on the plane to China. 

She always had powers,

said she came down from

the mountain to marry me

and only wanted a baby.

Is this the curse heaped

on me, another poem

written from negativity ?

What is creativity?

My father, already dying,

blurted out "I hate

poetry' even as we love

each other uncontestedly.

Somewhere between therapy

and confession, between

image and revelation

the muse abides with me.

If she had seen the sun

devouring the tops of clouds

beyond her shoulder as we

flew toward opportunity …

If I had not let her words

tick as toward some terrorist

attack, we might have landed,

we might have lived.

Now I have only this screen,

these words, this fulfillment

of her prophecy for company

and yet I'm glad.

CENSORSHIP

Each day I tear articles

from papers--today

a naked child, burned,

crying.  Her photo,

it says, helped stop

the Vietnam war.
An army lieutenant

called in the strike

to flush out peasants

hiding in a temple.

Now they've found

the little girl, all grown,

and want to honor her.

She says that she

forgives them, though

their uniforms still

frighten her and she

still feels the pain

of them cutting

the dead skin.

I tear an article on

Walmarts, Kmart,

Blockbuster--how they

remove anything that

may offend their

customers--no dirty

words, no sacrilege,

no politics, sanitizing

album covers, lyrics,

softening their videos.

I fold these articles

to show my classes,

aware some blockhead,

conservative, anyone

empowered by the myth

he's right, could ask:
"What does this have

to do with English?'

I'm not teaching literature,

I'm teaching empathy.

AT THE OPEN READING

I'm reading poetry for myself

not you.  You know it's true.

You're not listening, thumbing

your manuscript, thinking what

to read.  And I'm not listening

either, thinking "Look at me!'

and "Am I grand?'  So

what are we doing here

on folding chairs in a barn

with a guitarist in the wings

who isn't listening either,

tuning up, mouthing

lyrics to his new song?

I'm writing poetry for myself

not you.  You go to book parties

to be seen, eat the cheese,

drink cheap wine, and then

you read one--open mike.

I've done it all, folks,

done it all, been author,

sponsor,  publisher. 

So don't tell me you're

too broke to buy a book. 

I know why you are here.

Put a hundred poets in one

room.  Call it an open reading.

Don't even charge a cover.

See how they show up only

for their reading time,

leave right after.  Where's

the charm?  They say "For love

or money.'   If you aren't

getting paid and I'm not,

listen, it must be love.

THE WORKSHOP EXERCISE

After nearly thirty years

you'd think he'd learn

there's nothing in a college

classroom worth describing

but he's telling them again

"Turn on your senses: listen.'

To what? The hum

of fluorescents, dull rubber

tread of sneakers, voices

from a farther room?

Oh, they're willing enough

and so is he.  "See, even

the grit accumulating on

newly waxed linoleum

can tell a story.'  But

after all, it's just a two-year

school. Why think "describe

the classroom' important?

Will Shakespeare emerge,

or T. S. Eliot? Who?

What good could this do?
Still, something, for all

the heat of a September evening;

somehow,  for all the effort

to attend; some way,

these lines must mean,

as surely as this dim

light that leaves

our windows travels

forever outward searching

for a single sympathetic

mirror to send it home again.

SHY

She says, "I'm shy,'

sits next to me all term,

says nothing. "I'm shy,'

in a workshop isn't good. 

I prod her to participate.

Take a chance, telling her

"You've got talent.'
She's not dumb. Could she

think she's ugly.  "Talk,' I say.

No go. She sits next to me,

chews gum, seems to listen. 

No makeup, plain jeans,

long hair without so much

as a hair clip.  Sometimes

we both sigh.  At her grade

conference, she finally talks

a little.  I reach to shake her

hand, noticing for the first time,

instead, a shriveled bird. 

YOUR KNEE

is an engine

pumping piston

for a solid hour sitting

in my classroom

that plump polky

bouncing what could

you be thinking or

are you running

from, toward me

while I talk and talk

pretend to teach you

yearn to flee through

that jiggling knee only

if you slept you'd dream

and wet the bed or screwing

you don't have to imagine

wetness but here

in this dry institution

you generate just enough

sweat jouncing mostly

your right knee so quickly

(I've timed you) three times

a second all but enough

to redline on the tach-

ometer of our hapless

existence.

WRITING PAPER

Paul Blackburn

beat his old shirts

to pulp to make

paper for his poems.

Douglas Howell,

papermaker,

said "It takes

300 years tell

good paper.'

I'll settle for

rice paper,

a touch of oil,

and dash of salt

a meal if not

the test of time.

WRITING PAPER

Paul Blackburn

beat his old shirts

to pulp to make

paper for his poems.

Douglas Howell,

papermaker,

said "It takes

300 years tell

good paper.'

I'll settle for

rice paper,

a touch of oil,

and dash of salt

a meal if not

the test of time.

THE SCAM

If I'm supposed to be working

why am I having fun?  This

is a college. Three credits.  Be serious.

They even want me to catch them:

spot quizzes, short answers,

final exams, mental gymnastics--

no pain, no gain. Now I know

I'd better whisper so the Dean

won't hear:  they pretend

to pay me.  I pretend to work. 

If the student is an empty vessel

it's not my job to find a cork.

ALONE IN BED

It's 2 a.m. in a Holiday Inn

and I'm alone in bed

which is another story

and the proverbial train whistles

have awakened me.  I realize

I've got pain deep in my chest.

My left hand has gone numb.

I'm well nearly sixty.

So it's time to make a few decisions--

me dialing 911, the EMT's, et cetera.

Or dial that pudgy woman with the sallow skin

early twenties at the night desk.  If she comes

to my room, something might develop

but I'm not dying to be in her arms.

I recall the suitcase I lifted

checking in, the chest pull. 

I've got a hundred more reasons

I could be in pain and how dying in bed

would be rather pleasant. I roll over

and sleep the night soundly with a smile.

NEGATIVE ENERGY

She shows up with enough pills

in her to rattle when she walk;

looks toxic; talks non-stop,

asking the same dumb question.

"Why did you leave me?' 

Baby, if you don't know,

who's going to tell you now? 

Sometimes I wish I could take

those pills, but I relax--I'd zombify.

She leaves with a spin of pebbles

from my driveway.  Luckily

or not, we won't go on

this way forever.

DINNER IN SILENCE

She sets the dishwasher

though he hates the noise--

complaining she has to clean

this mess--and churns on

about her fate: no job;

the kids don't need me;

no value to my intellect.

I meditate on headlines,

pretend to read; disappear

into ink and paper.  Dinner done,

the dishwasher steaming sanitary,

I rise like an adolescent, guilty.

She raises the telephone receiver,

unaware that no amount of talk

can cleanse us.

FLOWERS

He thinks of sending flowers

though she hates him,

secret bouquets of lavender

and baby's breath. 
They had a child they

called their precious

orchid.  Creating life

the gods never mistook

for love. He's neither

god nor man enough

to know he's beaten.

She wants to tend

her garden by her-

self. Alone at night

he dreams they're

reunited,  roses

awaiting the new light.

When he awakes, well

into morning, the sun

has burnt the petals

like a blight.

THE TERRITORY

Divorcing the kids

goes with the territory

everyone says

but his small voice

cracking on the phone

is more revenge for her

than she could ever plan.

Once he and I were

pals, first names.

Now I argue

with her for

an afternoon

bickering over

what time

to pick him up--

at school, at home?

"What will we do

today?" he asks.

"Anything you'd like,"

I say indulgently.
He whispers just

loudly enough for me,

"I want to go back

in time and live with you."

HE VISITS HER

framed in the dark

of his meditation.  No one

believes he leaves his body.

They see the husk--his placid

smile, the whiskers, whatever

incongruities clothe him.  He's gone,

arching over Canada, the Rockies,

rolling, icy wilderness, then 3,000

miles of sea to Hong Kong where she

sleeps in a slide-out cot by her mother

who stole her from him.  Carefully,

he alights--his shoes left

with his body in New York.

Playfully, he tickles her baby chin,

coaches a sleepy smile.  Then,

with a lurch he's back in his body.

Talk about cheap tickets.  Astral

Airlines!  Or, sometimes he just

talks to her photo in its brass frame.

CUSTODY

In the theatre he sits

a row away from me

as if to make the point:

his parents have separated.

He holds back tears

at all the silly jokes

other kids make that his

mom and dad are different.

At dad's he sits in the old

brown recliner, TV on mute.

"What do you want to do?" I ask.

"I just want some quiet."

The court rules by law not logic.

Unless the kid is bleeding

there is no child abuse.

TIME

How can he let her go,

his littlest child?  Each day

he wishes time would slow

so she won't grow

away from him.

To make time stop,

he thinks of pain--

the headache that

wouldn't go away:

exquisite, imprinted

vellum, buckram

leather binding,

a book to last forever.

He could contract

an illness and malinger,

an injury so slow to heal

time takes forever.

Rather, he decides

to shave his head

knowing how slow

his hair will grow. 

That look, a friend

confides, is ugly.

Good, he thinks, why

keep the pain within?

TROPHIES

Every year married

another trophy

to wow our friends

even ourselves

and our son--

so much younger

than two daughters.

Strangers ask,

"Is this your

second marriage?' 

"No, and he was

planned.'  Some plan,

reduced to a divorce

statistic and all

that's left--arguing

who owns the trophies.

WHEN IS IT EVER OVER?

How grateful he'd be to never

see her again--though she

mothered his three kids.

Divorce should be an end.

They linger near from circumstance,

the youngest still joint custody.

Love lost is a leaden thing.

Her accusations, his regrets,

and the truth reduced

to "two sides to every story.' 

Say how she raged,

she beat the kids,

it's sour grapes.  Say she's

crazy--no, really crazy--

and she's "the poor thing.'

Don't explain and don't

complain: hard wisdom

to heed. Only, let there be

one paycheck free of alimony.

A thousand a month for life? 

How come?  Because when

I got my divorce they didn't

have the death penalty.

IN HER DREAMS

If she awakens it won't be

as a cockroach but a fine

silver bug darting amid

trails carved under rocks.

Even as a child she carried

a great weight.  Now

she fears light, runs fast

as a centipede to catch up

for all those years as if some

thumb and pincer will grab her

just as the stone is lifted.
Imagine living so long

never to feel fresh air. 

Run, you frantic bug.
It's one last chance 

for the high grass 

before you disappear.

TORTURE

"Torture" wasn't in my vocabulary

before you.  It rolled from your

tongue to my surprise in the Blue Jay

restaurant, an early date with you

complaining "That professor tortured

me."  And I was sympathetic.

Later, an editor would torture

your creativity. A dean tortured

you as a teacher.  At last, I

earned the honor, as sadist

and psychological abuser:
"Why are you torturing me?"

After twenty years I

became your Grand Inquisitor,

only to swap my title for

someone who abandoned you.

FLASHBACKS

The pain pops up

at odd moments,

driving, the window

down, a fresh breeze

and even though I

am happy, a wave

of images working

toward what?

I only meant

to shop, a quick

stop at the post,

lunch with a friend

and here are the old

haunts, scary enough

to make me scream.

I keep driving,

won't pull over.

If I crash at least

the memories will die.

THE SUBSTITUTE

"Being with you is a substitute

for love," he said, sorry

he was lying--trying to avoid

eye contact because eyes

are always arrows

and she, the archer. 

He could have told her,

"Mine is a father's love,"

but she was not his daughter,

leaving just "love,"

both spiritual and sexual.

She trusted him, though

both shivered in the icy waters

of sexual sublimation.  So

he resolved to tell her

she was all a young man

could ever want and then some--

smart, talented, attractive--

even if the words weren't poetry

and he was hardly young.

TO THE JUNKYARD

The love that's left--

old crankcase oil

that just won't drain.

I clean the plugs,

put on new wires.

The spark just

isn't there.

If there's an honest

body shop, tell me

where. But this

was no accident.

I went at it head-

long and now I

have to pay. 

The engine races,

idles, quits.  Rust

everywhere. In the end

it's the salvage heap.

There's barely a part

worth saving before

the crusher.

THE MONK

For days I'd assign myself not speaking,

hiding in the house a thousand miles

from home where I could

not speak if I wanted to.

She talked endlessly

usually blaming. 

The kids were too small

to speak, only saying words.

Adults know how to aim.

I stopped talking to her

and that was the end.

Later I considered the virtues

of silence enough to want

to be a monk.  Then, I bought

the OED and got on with my life.

SOMEONE

She parks her sport car,

by the bay, steps out--

short skirt, quick-open

snaps--then climbs

in the cab of a pickup truck.

His plaid shirt signals

turning the corner,

right tail light out. 

Their look says

motel, hourly rate. 

The sea drains slowly,

low tide revealing

a muddied channel.

Gray gulls squat, mindful

of the lessening light.

EVERY BABY

beckons, its cry my need

to see the helplessness

in me set free.  No matter

someone else's kin,

I want the child to smile,

carry everything from candy

and toys to tricks to make

a baby sleep.  Open

a nursery, study pre-

school, adopt, I should

be someone's mother

but am just by myself.

SUFFERING

It's such a comfort to suffer,

choosing physical pain for starters,

optional surgery, bleeding, facial

swelling, trouble breathing,

swallowing and even speaking

which leads to silent suffering,

heroic in appearance and then

there's psychological suffering,

exquisitely subtle if concomitantly

unheralded, beginning with a little

thought, perhaps an "I love you,'

or a more pedestrian "That

looks like a good stock,'

and wham, you're hit

and run, sturm und drang,

though no one really gives

two shits for someone else's

suffering.  Next to "You're

right but there's nothing I can do,'

"The shmice wasn't on my ass,'

is the greatest glimpse into

human nature.  But I do love

my suffering, there eternally,

for as long as I chose to live.

FOR MY FRIENDS WHO TRY TO CHEER ME

Please let me wallow in self-pity.

I don't need sympathy or un-

derstanding.  I was married

twice. Now I'm wedded to pain.

My first "X' says I wronged her.
I never should have left.  I say

I ran for my life. In court, such

he-said she-said is a joke.

My second "X' was more a "Y'

as in "Why did I ever marry

her?'  Of course I'm totally

to blame.  Worse, she says

I'm the devil.  So tell me why

you think that I'm not happy? 

We don't chose our parents;

our siblings are accidental;

but wives are conscious constructs. 

I've built these buildings. 

Don't tell me to tear them down.

QUIESCENCE

Some men enjoy

floating in the heat

of a woman's anger.

I don't.

Science teaches

even hell must freeze. 

Entropy, the slow

surcease of energy.

But this waiting, waiting

for the cooling. 

I never did

excel at physics.

MARRY A DANCER

It doesn't last long

first love as lithe

as Martha Graham

and oh so flexible

but soon not

as spontaneous

and occasionally

painful as a pulled

ligament.

                  The half-

life of a dancer like

American marriages

short and if you stay

together the body goes

leaving only aging

promo shots and an

uncontrollable urge

to choreograph.

BACHELOR SONG

Lately I have discovered

the strangulations I mistook

for love are nearly gone.

The rare woman who might

chase me I turn away,

not even because her body,

as old as mine, has lumps

that even kneading will

not soften. I've had enough

of love, enough of enemies.

The insults an errant stranger

wields aren't insults anymore. 

I used to think immunity

meant ingesting poison. 

Now, I simply diet.

Pain in the neck? No need

for a CAT scan.  Change pillows. 

If people knew the virtues

of an empty bed, they'd

marry mattresses.  Not

that I foreswear pleasure;

rather, I have discovered

the leisure of silence,

the intensity of being free.

COURTLY LOVE REVISITED

Dying in you is my biggest fear.

I'm drifting in your river,

drowning thinking of you,

your skies, your seas.

A capsized ship, my heart

buried in the cool waters of your hell.

You, who killed me, poisoned me

with my never forgetting

loving your destructive eyes

behind that pretty mask.

You write your killer's script

of me burning in the hell of you.

Our tryst a bullet you fired

from your .38 caliber heart.

You pulled the trigger

looking into my eyes.

HER NAME

When her name

is mentioned

a lower chakra

opens--a tight-

ening of ligature

between anxiety

and desire.  I

shudder recalling

our intimacy. 

"Get over it,'

folks counsel,

but memory

is so erotic.

OLD FLIRTS

These intimations of love

must stop: sideward

glances at a meeting;

the calculatedly casual

brush of clothing as we

leave; the extra moment

of silence balancing be-

tween strides before

we part.  Soon, conscious

will become obvious. 
We've both been there:

the exquisite falling,

every regular detail

re-lit by you.  The tea

will need less honey;

the table talk, eloquent;

even diner cuisine will

excel. Oh, and the bedroom,

it will have the hauteur

of a Bronte novel--

so pent-up, so grand.

Neither of us wants this

even as we finally allow

ourselves to stare,

to reach for a hand;

hold back that step to ask,

"Are you doing anything

next Friday?'  "Yes,'

you say and instantly

destroy me. "But Saturday

is free.'  And so it's started.

A FOG

I remember a fog

more like another

world where even

our hand disappeared,

held out to feel the way.

A fog we licked

off our lips, acidic

from the breath of a city.

And I remember

the house where we

stayed warm by a stove

with whatever to eat.

No way to shop,

we fed on love.

FURNISHINGS

That night in Zdanic

the empty walls

begged for furniture.

We had only a mattress

on the floor, a box

of belongings doubling

as a nightstand.  We found

each other for the first time

though not so willingly,

as if it were your fear,

my fever that made

the moment real.

Early morning's buses

dieseled past. The tick

of a wind-up clock. 

Your hurt cry, my cough. 

At last, our sighs.

SHE PEELS CORN

She holds

the sweet corn

between her

legs pink

cotton shorts

long blond hair

knock your

breath out

so unconscious

of the moment

stretching the ear

peeling back its

outer skin

to reveal

the succulence

within, licks

a finger wet

with corn juice

waiting for

the rolling boil

then butter

butter

salt.

LOVERS SLEEPING

You are

the gentle

nudging at

my back

late at night

under silk sheets.

Real love

takes us

as we sleep,

wraps us

in subtle peace

of someone there.

Cold feet,

clearing throat. 

A light caress,

a waking blink.

A conscious tickle-- 

who needs sleep?

THE BODY SHOP

He keeps a can of WD40

by the bed.  If it squeaks,

oil it. If it's rusty there's

the body shop, bondo

and a paint job.   Just when

she's looking good again

he hits that low abutment.

There goes the front end. 

Drag her in for an alignment.

Get her fixed and hope

there's still life in the old

engine.  Used as they are,

you know how men

can love their cars.

Better put some sawdust

in the differential.

GRATITUDE

For the rush of tears

at precisely 8:07

your time, cleansing me

of fear so I can sleep.

For your filling me

with pleasure

in a world so cruel

even children weep.

For joy and health

though we both know

they're slight.

For brightening

the darkness of my night.

SPRINKLERS IN A BOOKSTORE

Suppose the books did catch fire,

frayed wires or even censorship. 

These iron flowers abiding evenly

along rows of cold pipes will protect us. 

But those who remember Noah

know what water can do.

Best to memorize or

be prepared for recreating.

THIS POEM IS YOUR GIFT

I can't buy you anything.

In stores, where jewelry glistens

gold, silver, amethyst.  I can't

guess your style.  When I buy

you a scarf you smile and hang

it in the closet, never to be worn. 

Why are some women easy,

others so hard to please?

I bought you roses but they

only made you sneeze; sent

a greeting card with humor

but you wanted romance. 

At movies I haven't got a chance--

you hate my films, glance

at the popcorn and wish

aloud it had no butter.  So,

in resignation, here's my poem,

addressed to you with thanks

for being you.  Late, dark, abed

when you lie next to me,

utter "I love you," I know

at last I've made the perfect choice.