AS IT SHOULD BE

Day gives way to night.
Life gives way to death.
Truth gives way to truth
and falsity to falsity.
Nothing moves, nothing
cedes, all is constant.
This is enso, one stroke,
complete and incomplete
and this is mu.
You may enter freely,
but will never leave, and
once captured you have
never been here
and cannot enter.
If this seems confusing,
it is precisely what
it should be and you
have seen clearly.
Welcome! Now leave.

ADIEU, SOL

The sun is preparing
still another departure.
He moves with a ponderousness
that you wouldn’t expect of him,
he who should be all passion
consuming the sky, painting clouds.
We expect his return by morning,
he has never yet disappointed
but Luna, lingering at the horizon,
a diva making her slow entry,
shines fully as if saying
tonight you won’t miss him —
the day may be short, but I
will make the long night bright
and mine is one you need
not look away from.

WINDSOR EVENING

I sit in the window
staring out over the rain slicked streets
to the passing of the occasional car
and the three men who glance furtively
at the door of the “Adult Entertainment” club.
The old oak floors are scarred
by too many heels. The railing along the window
is bolted into the floor, suspending
the white lace curtains.
The young woman sits at the next table,
Players cigarette nestled between her fingers,
trying to conceal her anxiety.
She nurses the cup of coffee,
staring at the two menus resting on the table.
She pulls at the hem of her pink ramie sweater
and glances periodically at her watch.
Her leg, encased in stone washed denim
swings like a metronome as she stares
at the Detroit News, not reading.
She lifts her head, and a smile
creeps across her lips as her friend enters,
skirt dripping water, forming a small puddle
on the floor under her chair.
The waitress, robed in a black satin pantsuit
brings the escargot, on their bed
of linguine, and the evening washes on.


First Appeared in Eratica: Half a Bubble Off Plumb, Vol. 4, No. 1, Winter
1999.

CRYPTIC (an acrostic)

God, it was a long night, unending
needs unsated, brought to the edge
man is a cruel beast, half master
as pleading supplicant, half slave
much the child, begging, wanting
as if food or thought would give
man humanity, elevated above
needs, existing outside, independent a
God, ruler of illusion and fantasy.


First Appeared in Aura Literary Arts Review, Vol. 3, No. 2, Summer 1996.

BOOTCAMP

The butterflies came in the night
floating through the barracks window,
mainly monarchs, orange and black
but the occasional yellow, with
more gossamer wings, and the odd white
with small green patches, one to a wing.

There is a corner in my footlocker
that is mine, where I can hide
the tattered book of poems.
A true poet is unafraid to write
an ode in blood, if the situation requires
drawn from her vein
by a needle or the baton
of the security force.

In the river downtown the cup
floats along, carried on the current
into which I cast my dreams
when they no longer serve any purpose.
I can easily aim the rifle
at the silhouette and ease back
on the trigger, but would the child’s skull
explode with the impact of the round
or merely cave inward, collapsing?

I can look into the mirror
in the morning, before first light
and see the shine on my head.
The cancer is advancing, growing
until I no longer have control
and merely respond to its commands
in carefully spit-shined boots
as though anyone would give a damn
waist deep in the fetid water
of the rice paddies.

The heat is unbearable
and you sweat at the thought of motion.
You, forced march from your dreams,
and the butterflies disappear
into the exhausting night.


First Appeared in Blind Man’s Rainbow, Vol. 4, No. 3, February-March, 1993.