Boxer’s Training

I carry my father’s battered single edge blade 

in my back pocket. The bulge, a reminder

to stay on my feet, least I fall on my ass.

Poet’s Curse

I love to watch the sprinklers blow like whales 

against an ocher ocean of dying grass.

The curse of the poet is to harpoon every moment

with verse and punctuation.

Step-Father

Every morning that he wakes late,

I wonder if he’s in there breathing

or has his soul descended to Hades. 

There he can freely abuse 

Persephone who’s wearing my mother’s 

go-go boots and polka dot min-skirt.

The Surgeon

Shadows are precise, unlike the wind.

The winds a clumsy oaf scattering leaves, 

breaking limbs, toppling trees, whereas 

shadows cut daylight in half like a medical

practitioner qualified to practice surgery.

If I could only name them

Every man lives in a valley 

limited and protected by the hills 

of his making.

That was then

I watched a man, similar to me, pulling 

a weighted roller over newly laid grass, 

like a man trying to crush his past.

Foreign Exchange

Have a nice day

Within minutes, I dawn new gowns: 

neutral, sad, happy, oblivious, present

and fear reigning with her three tiered tiara.

Then, I do it again:

neutral, sad, happy, oblivious...

Dying Alone

blood numbers

For forty-five years

he’s driven me away

using numbers or facts

as a prodding rod.

Breathing

I know longer care about

the big questions:

tuna or chicken salad

and all it’s variants – god, no god.

I’d rather watch the landscape

turn from dawn to noon to dusk to stars.

I’d rather lay my head on your chest 

with it’s moving up and down.

Warehousing the infinite

For my taste the infinite

is better boxed, labeled, and

safely stored in an out of the way

forgotten warehouse guarded 

by grave robbers and the CIA.