A Dream After My Father Died

Someone is saying "uncle" this afternoon
in an effort to keep their arm
from being twisted off.

A distant relation
gives me a a cup of tea
while the voice
at the other end
croons a creep Latin ode about
the shape of the ear piece.
The dog I never owned
is gone and outside
the cement of the street
buckles and cracks.
It might be raining dust,
this could be the
end of the world,
there's a lifeboat in the tea,
yellow lamp light falls
on the pages
of the Sunday magazine
whose print is large
but blurred,
as though under wax paper.

The living room
has only three walls,
|and as I set
down the phone,
my parents
pull out of the driveway
in a shiny blue Buick Skylark ,
they drive slowly up the street,
no luggage
as far as I can tell.

Scaffold of Love

Two Riders on the Last Bus of the Night

The creep in the eye patch
resting on his cane
stares mono visioned
through the window

Passing the inane dread of
city light coronas
liquor tore signs
and hitch hikers after dark

While his welt-eyed beauty
rests her smeared tiara
and bandaged wrists against
the rattling window,
fingering the wrinkles
of the scarf he used
to wipe the stains from his seat ,

Returning from where eve
they were coming from
to whatever waited for them
after he pulled the cord
and stepped into
the unbreathing wrap of the night.

Breaking Bread

The opening of the doors
in a swing the other way
breaks the smoke

Hanging there under
x-ray radiance 
stripping everything
to an embarrassing nakedness
of goods and services

Doled out in hopes of 
happy returns to lines
clanging the tune
welcomed at any rent party
where we might break bread
or some heads
or maybe

Some habits we could do without
like this brand or that staring you 
down the throat
with a price tag like a ticket
summoning us for some jury duty
and fast cash
ten cents to the dollar,

The opening of the doors
leads another
foray down
the aisles of low return
where I've heard
some Japanese soldiers
still lurk behind
cellar doors
waiting for word
of the descent
of The Emperor's sword.

After I Knew It All.

The brave face
cracks under the strain
of being gracious
when yet another
pretty girl wanders by
in a dress made of breeze.

What I summon isn't
courage or good manners,
what you see
is cold sweat suppressed
and turned into the foul iron
that runs through the veins.

Should I smile
or going about my business
looking at my watch
as though I am late
for something that awaits.

You were always late for something
arranged weeks in advance,
my scalp
still has the scars of me
scratching my head for hours and months,
wondering where
you were.

I take a photo and change the landscape,
I write a poem and configure impossible probability,
I take my harmonica solos to a blues known only on obscure moons,
all my essays about what I was taught
and what I learned
after I knew it all.

Still I'm Sad

I tire of the day
that glares with
a surfeit of sunshine,
I wary of clouds
that stain my horizon,

The best ideas
are those
that bring you home
to where the table set
and messages await
your reply,

The worst notions
take you to
intersections
where the lights don't work,
gas stations and fast food joints
taunting you
from across the street
with their variations of
instant gas and pain.

I am tired of myself
thinking
so much
about matters
written on napkins
and register receipts.

What is done
has been paid before
and still
I'm sad.

Sadder Than Guess Work

Sitting through the argument with the day,

I still hear the scraping

of celluloid picks

against the strings,

electric guitars hysterical

at the afternoon traffic

that feeds the habits of a nation

cursed with a million dreams of desire.

What happens

when I dial numbers

expecting you to be there,

staring at magazines

through magnifying glasses,

talk radio filling the kitchen,

the list of your medicines

taped to the refrigerator door,

your handwriting

large like loops of

loose thread?

The phone rings and,

in the emptiness,

I imagine the dining room

you'd walk through to get it.

I let it ring for minutes

on end, to make sure you' re not home.

Coming and going

on the streets

of scattered small towns

are desires driving themselves

insane, drivers behind wheels

at traffic lights

arguing against the fact

that there is no place

they have to be

when the sun sets,

a destination is

removed from their lives.

We talk back to

the radio,

snarl at dial tones,

all our phones keep

ringing forever in the orbits of atoms

threading together the fabric

and excuse of our material world.

I can't even smoke

in my own car because

nothing burns in a vacuum,

you'll never be home again,

the  fact itches like insect bites

in the seams of my shirt,

night is like a closing of eyes

when what's out there is

sadder than guess work.