in the dream

the man who has something on his mind

is standing in the desert a megaphone at his mouth.

the scorpion shows up.

two lizards come close.

the dehydrated cactus

likes it that way

and stands at attention.

the man who has something on his mind

speaks freely but has forgotten to press

the megaphone's button.

the aggravated scorpion tires of his nonsense 

and zaps him with its stinger.

the lizards make love on the scorching sand.

the cactus continues its determined stance of self defense.

the man who has something on his mind

is learning his lessons.

this is the desert's song

the song of man

the notation of a dream.

                    the turtle sings

you might think I’m slow.

I’m not slow. you’re zooming in and out to everywhere

through your world incapable of resolution.

I'm not slow. what a tsetse fly is to you, you are to me.

you’ll see I’m right when you’re dead.

It's true. I eat houseflies,–– those big-eyed

germ carriers who find their way to the kitchen

then vomit on your morning toast.

It's what they do when they make a landing.

did you know that? still think you're smart?

look at me. penned inside a glass-walled aquarium

without a roof because you know I can’t jump.

I hate you. each morning when you check

to see if I'm living, know now that I hate you.

do you think I'm clawing at the walls of your

penitentiary because I'm conversing with glass?

because it's some sort of twisted mating ritual?

I want out. I want out!–– listen to my song.

set me free so that when I awake in the morning

I can smell the roses before the alligator eats me.

                    skin

my skin. my very own skin.

a silken skin nearing transparency; 

the veins running blood a constant

transfusion to the heart.

the muscle, my muscles, (I’ve always

had them but not for exhibition)

are incapable of lifting, unlike the ant,

anything heavier than my weight.

my eyes seem to be widening.

it's not yet concerning, but

they seem to be widening.

I can tell. I know these things.

soon, they'll become the last

eyes of my father.

I should be exhibited inside a museum.

one portrait is enough;

this is my skin, the introduction

to what lies beneath the surface

like Ingres' drapery, or Vermeer's, or a prom dress.

influenza  (from the mid-18th century Italian tongue)

how would the weary salesman on the road

have written his poetry

or the inner hatband stitcher, hers?

or the past's young love,.. her black & white oxfords sliding

backward through the slow ones slicker than Hayworth?

how would the leather-skinned cobbler have written

his poetry, or his wife, hers–– or those who've dreamed

at their shuttle looms and withheld only to dream again?

what are the consequences of these questions at the end of my day?

better to simply sneak a peek at life's confections, standing naked,

that is, save for my socks.

                    the beginning

for the young woman who was born in Somerset

who moved to New York who lives in London

and here I am surrounded by the echo of running cloth,

working alone in a room which is what I do all the time

and she’s intriguing and futuristic and panoramic

and I'll toss into the ring, exotic.. and she sings like a bird

and that’s the heart of her journey.

my pain-in-the-ass phone warns me of updates with a ping

but this time there is no ping. I’m older than the fucking ping.

older than the young woman who lived on the stage,

the stage she wears like a cape through the props of her early life

learning on the march the crucial measurements of what to do for love.

so this is a silent knock at her door from a poem-writer in the city

of granite and she’s living her life anew in the city of London.

                    a poem which comes to this

sometimes I'll sit on the couch.

sometimes basketball is on television.

somewhere, somebody has fallen down the stairs.

somewhere, somebody washes the dishes.

somebody else lives in Paris.

someone shoots somebody sometime

before its broadcast hits the local news.

walking outside

I'm aware of what surrounds me

but not everything penetrates my senses.

exhaust fumes sicken me

but in moderation I enjoy its scent.

if pungency was reduced

the fumes would rival the scent

of lavender.

it rains a light, windless rain.

it's a warm rain and when it beads

on my face I wipe it away

with nothing more than my sleeves.

there are other goings on in the world

and most escape my attention.

It's not that I'm disinterested.

I'm too old to cultivate unresolved opinions.

I’m too old to outlive much of anything.

all the genuine blonde

bombshells of my youth are gone.

                    the dead bird

from the balcony five floors above ground

something penetrates the crosshairs of my sightline

a dead bird on the grass near the benches

the sun in perfect attitude to smear its coat in light

the day bright enough to encourage visitors to the outside.

this can never include me.

they may not notice what I notice or see things the way I see them.

some speak a language foreign my sensibilities.

the dead bird has entered the space of its paradise. 

inside, the soprano Kristine Opolais is singing the wrenching

“Addio” from "Suor Angelica”

and at the kitchen counter I prepare a creamy peanut butter

and seedless blackberry jam sandwich for lunch.

elapsed time: from the balcony sighting

to the kitchen counter:  23 seconds

                   an essay in the form of a poem (so a poem) and birthday greeting

It’s true. I wanted to name

our newborn son “Dark Green”.

of course his lovely young mother

put an immediate stop to it.

her insistence willed-out and that’s good.

my last name would not have been

appropriate as to syntax.

(three syllables, accent on the middle)

“Dark Green” needed a one syllable 

last name like "Duke” or “Ham” or “Mace”.

two syllables, accent on the first might’ve been okay,

like: “Salad” or “Plumber”––

but this is our (come to find out) one and only son.

Frank Zappa had it right with “Moon Unit”

for his daughter because “Zappa” has two syllables,

accent on the first and that works well with "Moon Unit".

in time we settled on “Zak”  but between contractions

she changed her mind and went permanently with “Josh”.

also, history will show that "Zak” was taken by the son of a drummer

in a British rock n' roll band some 10 years beforehand.