Tendencies

Life drives me crazy. I swear 

this is not my car. I don’t remember 

buying it, I can’t afford to rent it,

I don’t recall parking here. 

There’s never enough insurance. 

I wouldn’t shop here if someone 

had warned me. Who knew?

Right here this gets real

existential-like, I don’t 

understand the stricken 

world, so sad & beautiful.

All I know is somehow 

I stopped here & choose to stay 

to continue the tradition. 

I tell myself, “Remember to stand up.” 

Then I look to see if I’m here 

with the keys... then it all 

comes back. Turns out I do drive. 

I even have a license. 

I drive good.

Published in ‘Beat Not Beat’ (Moon Tide Press)

Eyes for the Horizon

            for Greg Favors, the painter

Brown felt hat

worn forever

at the end of the pier

from way off

his eyes bob

down/up inhaling

the sky’s breathy haze

a rumple of hills

the jagged back of the city

white blast of the bay’s

lightning ripples

under sun’s fierce glaze

all blur

when he takes his glasses

off to feel the view

brush stuck in his hand

palette on the bench beside him

he looks down exhaling through

the bristled tip dabbling deep blue

flash of the metal band

that wraps its long shaft

dips into a plastic cup

flicks a drop

dancing on the edge of his paint pot

tickling pigment

sweeping shapes into flat space

colors he can breathe.

6-22-13

Alameda Bird Reserve

Night Light

Fog down between the houses

book wet in minutes

shallow pool on the table

ink skipping pebbles

of mist on the page.

No time to complain-

it's your luck to have this

moist air, a full belly

chair on a balcony

light to write by-

praise for the blessed headlamp's

cyclops eye

centered on a forehead

bent to learn! Otherwise

it's just plain dark.

for Alpha and Latif         

10-31-12

SF

Hen House

for Sangye

The mother is never done.

Her hands work

her heart, play dough

shapes. The mold cuts her

to size, she looks in the mirror

of her child’s eyes

and stares back.

She holds a bottle, a receiver

a broom, remembers

not knowing what to do

but she never stops

talking, her voice

an alarm clock

bull horn, lullaby

crackling long distance

muttering under her breath

quick prayers, hopes

like great clouds

on the horizon.

She tells herself

to let go

all birds fly.

She cleans and cleans

the nest, its emptiness

its clutter of songs.

She learns to sing

a new tune.

She’s off key

but carries on

late at night

when the other hens

are quiet.

3-18-13

Mt. Shasta, CA

Out of the Fog

At night when only sirens whine

and stoplights change for no one

walking, no cars, joggers, no dogs

just cats bored with the bushes

tails high on patrol,

the glittering lace of the bridge dims.

We blink to see it’s true

and I say, “Look!”

Low clouds from out on the ocean

breathe heavy over the city

over the bay into Oakland

swallowing the waterfront

its tips of red flash

and sink into darkness

the freeway drowns

neon dims out

windows sift shut

buildings fade in the creep

up Piedmont Avenue where the edge

of our neighborhood shadows

and disappears.

The glowing street globes above Brandon

swell with waves of whirling mist

billowing through the wash.

“We’re above it.”

But of course we aren’t,

snuggled side by side

in your plaid wool blanket.

The swirl of each word drifts.

“It’s for us,” you say

as you take my hand

into your pocket.

for David

2-2-13

at home on the balcony