missive, anyone?

the poem I wrote last night

is 10 times worse

than the one I wrote the night before,

unless I’m thinking about

two completely different poems which I might’ve

written on two different nights altogether now.

that's funny.

I wasn’t thinking about the Beatles here.

maybe they crept into my atmosphere

when I wasn’t looking.

I’ve never hummed a song I didn’t know

but have hummed a song I didn’t like.

well, maybe I liked it a little and didn’t realize.

it’s possible an old flame sang it to me

after the bar closed and if so, I’ll love it until I croak.

(reflecting on my time at “Mr. Flood’s Party” Ann Arbor

back when it meant something larger than one’s self.

I'm referring to the saloon, not the E. A. Robinson poem.)

this entire experience hasn't been easy.

on the other hand, I think it has.

                   the poem-writer fully empowered

to Neruda it means one thing,

to me it means something else,

to the guy across the street who

mows half-an-inch of snow from his yard,

who is not a poem-writer, it’s meaningless.

so there you have it.

at this moment in time the world is populated by

the poems of Pablo Neruda, me, and the poetry

of the lunatic across the street.

must say, though,–– he’s got a nice little 

sheet of snow working for himself over there.

                    I thought I was an atheist and then

I went browsing through on-line wallpaper of cityscapes,

with a preference toward nighttime photos.

I like the way the incandescence shows-off the muscular attitude of skylines.

I wouldn’t normally see cities all lit-up and glossy from a distance because

who in their right mind would row a boat that far out simply to sneak a peek?

certainly not me.

there’s a perceived weight to a big city “rising” from the water

which makes it appear vulnerable to sinking.

the foundation at the city’s foot looks like a mirror reflecting the skyscrapers

spiking to a wondrous glaze; the full moon, the eyeball of God!

after the browsing, I prepared a breakfast of scrambled eggs, spears

of buttered asparagus and coffee as I thought of becoming an atheist again.

                   Adolf’s mustache

there it is

a spiny smear

cropped edge to edge

its message sent

faster than the send

key's pressed

then slowing to reach

its earthly space.

this mustache.

Adolf’s mustache.

the spiny smear above

the upper lip.

there’s a signpost ahead...