Be, Add 9 (Chromatic Portrait)

Riding yellow bus
Walking along the grey
Sleepless night under boughs green
Writing with deep fonts of black
About mazes of orange hazard cones,
Sipping coffee, a smile, he suddenly remembers-
brown
loves blue

Cielo

Without haven or harbor,
The crew of the Forge
tack to starboard, sort of a
twitching, noodling approach-
then, suddenly they make
for the open waters
Jarring jittery sceneries cause
Seasickness adrift here
Upon boiling waves
They fear the troughs may deepen
Stuffing brine into their noses
Breathing goes shallower, more rapid
Air molecules choked from memories,
Themselves uncharted oceans.
And I pursue a lonely course,
seeing only sea-
High in the deep north,
News from the capital
Is fragmentary
It may be I’ve come into money
Or some other trouble
How will I ever know
In my small hull

Sandlot

Creaking, rusting pallets
Crowding the anthills for
sunlit space
Where a remnant wall exhales
A half century old breath,
a glimpse of grass
and other smells
gritty, mealy
hamburgers and shell husks
sardines and mustard,
raw sewage floating
by the dugout steps
Tanned and ready,
perhaps not fully in shape
the batters
brush the bunting
and look quizzically
out toward the fences

When the Tsar Said 'What'

Bright particles,
dancing partners,
visible to the naked eye,
thanks to the only star that matters-
one leads, then the other,
the astronomer judges approve,
in their low orbit seats,
they don white hats
that make squishing noises
beneath them
the ground also thaws,
the buds and bushes
wiggle to life,
wooden pins,
like so many buried planks
it took a miracle
to identify the true cross

Theremin's Out of Tune

Never mind the last AOL, I heard
In Iceland a straw goat’s on fire
Let’s eat breakfast, quickly,
forget the video, there's too much of her

Here we are, it begins anew,
There’s a shiny penny going ‘round,
Wet towels surround me like soggy jerks,
They say all the noise is from rocket sounds

Lying awake, not the most beautiful game,
Three cheers for wine and whiskey, too,
Someone unhappy will want to exercise, but
there’s a price to pay the yoga crew

Reading aloud, seeing the pictures
Thought I'd see a warning sign
It’s clear you won’t be kissing my space
Thanks to the smiling stars that won't align

Previously Unreleased

Evening,
cooling,
blogging about chocolate chips,
exhaling last night’s big game meal,
blobs, faint traces,
fatty gristle lingers
from all the finger food-
ouch, tabasco found the thumb gash
save the ficus salve, a coating,
and a turnip victory-
Determine whether this is
a slash and burn year, or
a year to take pictures,
a year for anniversary banquets,
a year just pretty good,
promised served in greenswards
owned by those who answer
to ‘Milord’-
They find it just so
to serve fresh baked pie
bubbling over
with yellow and brown
and reddish ions
which do not dissolve
or solve an inequality-
this plagues the sages
make worthless,
the pages they can’t erase,
for their fear is that
the minister’s primes
might not repeat for several
hundreds of intervals-
a dilemma, not a moral one
just a slip up,
tell that to the wigs
convening to hear thousands
like this one-
my ears bleed from all the talk
and my fingers hurt
when I squeeze the ketchup packet-
end all debate at infinity,
leave a moment or two to ask,
‘Will fortunes change?’
For the boy has to know.

Dear Claudia Cardinale,

I haven't written
for a while,
today's the last day
for the copper pipes,
they're changing them out
for new artwork,
right in front of me-
one, an eye, a trompe l'oeil
of jagged strips,
like construction paper.
This morning I saw your
on-screen kiss
and the scene
where you kicked
Bardot's ass-
nice job.
When you have time
read my letters
about the broken
hotel chandelier,
if by chance you
pass them along
to a friend
or family member
later they might become
my friends-
As I scribbled
that night
in the courtyard
the noise
of breaking glass
frightened
photographers
who were in the bar
shooting stars
(not like you)-
the tour bus driver
wore a striped
sport coat,
full of bright
primary colors,
with a pink
carnation.
He spent most
of the trip
relaxing in the hot tub,
asking for small towels,
and eating red steak-
I know you know
the rainy days
how date palms get wet,
trains get cancelled,
and folks generally
head indoors-
in the spa
outside the lobby
a group of five
pedaled in place,
backs sweaty,
chasing dreams
of healthy holidays-
back home, their cars
sat beneath a coating
of thin frost-
one, a broken-down Buick
with an eerie
smell in the trunk,
it turns over
and starts,
all over again
in the morning-
people have no patience
at eight in the morning,
like the woman who dumped me
(you never would)
I said mean things
because things
were all in a rush
Hi you, hey there,
in a few years
you'll be history
just another girl
with a suitcase
Me, I'm waiting for
warmer waters,
like the frogs-
it's easy
being green,
long lasting global
changes will go on,
in front of
a national
television audience-
when the snows melt
that nice paint job
will turn to rust,
just don't let
the exterior fool you.