There are a group of them
who stare at the sky
knowing it is coming
launched on its course
at the beginning of time
which has no beginning.
Some say it will be soon
others are less certain when
but all accept without question
its inevitability, and wonder
what will remain in its
aftermath, seas evaporated,
continents blotted, it is easy
I tell them, there will be
a freaking big mess
for the roaches to clean up.
First Appeared in Pandaloon, 1996.
She looks carefully, not
wanting the others to know what
she sees, for she needs her secrets.
She wanders over, the others follow
totally unaware she has a goal,
that she will not be satisfied
until she attains it, and that she has
a determination that would give them pause
and no small measure of wonder.
As they stop to talk, she
slides away, still in sight, and they
ignore her, as she assumed they would.
They are predictable, and she uses this
to her advantage, day in and out.
She laughs loudly, insuring their attention
as she plops down in a large puddle
on the driveway, her onesie and diaper
soaking up water, as they feign horror
and then, laughing themselves, concede
she has, as two-year-olds
always will, bested them all yet again.
The box said all natural.
That alone was nothing unusual,
but it was on tomatoes.
How, he wondered, could tomatoes
but unnatural, or worse still
partially natural, partially not.
Had they cloned the tomato?
Would cloning make it unnatural,
and if so, how could you tell it
from the original which was natural?
And these weren’t organic.
He began to wonder how tomatoes
could be inorganic.
Wouldn’t they cease to be tomatoes?
It was all too confusing
and he was hungry
but all he had was tomatoes
and those he could no longer trust.
Time seems frozen in the checkout line
stuck between the Mars bars
and the tabloids, you wonder
how Liz could survive a total body
liposuction, and further details of how
OJ killed in a moment of lust.
The old woman in front rummages
in her change purse certain she has
the eighty-seven cents, the coins
lost in a blue haze reflected off her hair.
Two aisles over the young mother
her jaw clenched in frustration
keeps putting the life savers back
on the shelf as her child, fidgeting
in the cart grabs another roll, until
she shouts and slaps his hand.
His cry draws stares from all and she
stares at the floor as he grabs
a Three Musketeers and Certs.
A man in the express line swears
that the apples were marked 89 cents
and wants to see the manager
who calmly explains that Granny Smiths
are a dollar twenty-nine and only small
Macintoshes are on sale this week.
He puts the bag on the scale
and stalks out of the store.
I would shift to the express lane
but I have 16 items and must
continue to wait and wonder
how many incisions it would take
for a full body liposuction.
First Appeared in Kimera, Vol. 3, No.2, Winter 1998.
It does so little good
to wonder why things are not
as you wish
as they should be
as they seem to me
as they once were.
Things always are,
neither more nor less
and even Humpty Dumpty
understood this before
he leapt from the wall
in utter frustration
at the status quo.
The buildings, great towers
overlook the city.
The hills, torn
from the earth,
peer down at the towers
the dome of night,
watch over the hills.
The child, for whom
all is wonder,
grasps the stars
in small fingers.
You are two
and you laugh
for everything is funny
or can be, if you just tilt
your head a certain way
or wag a finger at it.
The cat watches
from behind the sofa
with a knowing gaze.
For you food is
as much a toy
as words are food
and you cannot imagine
why we old ones
are so blind to the obvious.
There are an infinite number
of sides to a ball
and you want to see all of them
or some, until they roll off
and you want to cry
at their loss, until
a leaf lands at your feet
and you giggle at the tree
for being so clumsy,
it is a mommy like yours
with one sock falling
from her laundry basket
as she carries it downstairs.
You hand me a block
and expect me
to construct a dream.