Descent

Sylvia’s ceiling was glass.
She could see armed men 
perched above with orders 
to shoot anyone whose parts didn’t
protrude.

But that’s not how she fell
into an oven.

That happened when she realized,
as all thinkers must,
that thought itself is their enemy —
not sex, not sin,
but a single word: 

Why?

*

Late-Night Lucid

What you discover
after —
after the battered “Yes, okay”
to your heart’s direction — 

is that all of your guns
that once shot enemies and fools
are now trained and aimed
at you.

One Last Chance
to apologize
to recant
to come home.

So you write another poem
as familiar bullets 
speed toward their mark.

*

“Quick!  They’re coming for you!
Call down your god!”

Oh, buddy, if you only understood.
My god runs towards me,
bayonet in hand,
trying to scare me off,
see if I turn.

“Some god!”

Yeah.  My god.
As I take a run at him.

*

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North Hollywood Elegy

Lankershim Boulevard was better
when Grammy took me to the
Jewish Council Thrift Store
to buy me an out-of-date
Writer’s Market, and I looked up
at her against the naked fluorescent
tube lights, and wanted to write
a story that would make her rich
and me famous
so that we wouldn’t have to shop
at the Jewish Council Thrift Store
again.

*

There was once a time —
you’ll have to trust me —
when Dad would write notes
for cigarettes and liquor,
and off I’d go to Dales Jr.

And then if I was fast,
he'd give me a sip.
It burned all the way down.

Probably how I got so good at track.

*

“I want you to stay away
from that guy upstairs.”
Old Shirley’s hair was frizzier
than usual. She held a glass.
“Something’s not right there.”

“Okay, I will,” as I walked 
past her window
down the driveway
out onto Oxnard

remembering how he 
held me to his chest
and showed me I was happiness.

*

Roam around the stories here. They’re pretty good.

Evolved

You remember it from somewhere:
“The only place now
I can hear myself think
is at the bottom of a swimming pool.”

So you try sitting 
down in the deep-alone.
Soon, no more bubbles to the top;
soon, eyes caressed in water’s well,
arms held — 
strange elongated creatures above,
splashing and splaying
toward cement shores,
over and over,
eager frogs fascinated by wavy light —

and you wonder whether
evolution
was such a good thing.

*

Stories and more — maybe even a book? Play around with the menu above.

Game

You know that game
where you walk
around chairs to 
music?

	“Musical chairs?”

and one is removed,
leaving someone standing?

	“Yeah?”

I’m the one left standing,
looking at this dumb game,
this violence-inspired
mirror of the human need
to hurt
and wondering

	“Why you ever 
	started to play?”

Yeah.

	“You think too much.”

*

More above. Just tap.

And there’s books. Right here.

Beds

Come make love with me,
my friend.
Show me your self,
	whether you’re fast or slow
	loud or soft —
	curtains opened or curtains 
	closed —
let me know, if only
for a minute or more,
you’re just like all the others
with a few tricks up your sleeve.

*

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Once, Near Big Sur

They laughed and hollered and hooted
wet with fog and chop-surge-crash
waves bigger than a man,
danced and drank the complete sea,
gods — 
preferred words to water-speak,
whiskey to land that’s sand,
dirt and dumb air
beautiful against their fire —

now ashes,
hard poets and mechanics and 
bricklayers
packed up, home with life,
leaving slight and then no
footprints for followers
who hold tickets for the show
and wait for something to happen.

*

A story a day — saves. Find them here.

Appropriate

“Had she ever tried to convert any one herself? 

Did she not wish everybody merely to be themselves?” 

— Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

*

They no longer colonize with ships.
No armies arrive on my shore,
war-boots in sea-water until they
sink into wet sand and subdue.

Too costly.  And then you have to
leave a force to force compliance...
It’s ugly.

Instead,
they whisper, those enlightened
who yet carry the burden of rectitude.
A word, a phrase
spoken through the air,
taken in —
and I’m lost.
They no longer act;
they just wait until I
bow my head
beat my breast
seek forgiveness

from gods curiously unprepared
to absolve.

*

If you like books, there are books here.

YouPoem

Poem.

Honestyinthemoment.  The sketch that contains the impulse.  The impulse that says YOUAREBEAUTIFUL when he’s standing next to you intheelevator, looking at his phone until he’s not looking at his phone, and all Life waits on someonetolivenotwatch him return your urge with a smileorsmirk that says thankyoufuckoff.  

Not choreographed.  Rehearsed.  Planned.  Theater. 

Real. Dangerous. You. 

Poem.

The spirityouwant being the spirityouare — to speak without speeching, to love without loving.  No -ings.  Only act, no neuteredgerunds, until you homeyourself, and the lifeyouare finds itself standing next to another life, sexy and real because you said “You’re beautiful” without try-ing, without plan-ing.  

YouPoem.

No end in sight, just Cosmos and onegiantchance.

What would Life be if honestyinthemoment was you?  

Poem.

*

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