Saturday, October 14, 2017

Winter In Detroit, 1987.

Winter In Detroit, 1987

The scene is this:  snow swirling in great whiteness, people scurrying
About in their cars.  Heavy with packages, and small children-teenagers
Flying by with snowy shoes.  A dog walks by, maybe a German Shepherd,
And he tries to wiggle in the snow a lot, like it is a blanket and he needs
The warmth underneath the snow to survive.  The stores in the city
Have bright windows as people shop or pass by.  Shadows fall on the
Ground, as the weather gets even grimmer.  There is no wildlife, now,
Except for the homeless people wandering about the night, lost in a cloud
Of coldness, trying to find the warmth of buildings, trying to find food to
Sustain them.  This is the real winter of Detroit, the homeless and the non-homeless,
People worrying about their bills, or their love lives, or their parents,
Some dead, some not, like Harold Buchinchamp, whose parents died long ago
In a winter like this, trapped in their black Ford as it sank towards the bottom
Of an icy river.  He remembers this.  He remembers everything.

Wednesday, October 04, 2017

Poem.

Miracles happen every day.
Now I hear my favorite song on the radio.

But the car needs a tune up.

On Being In Bloom.

I am in bloom, though I do not feel like it.
I feel like I am on a roller coaster to nowhere.
I feel like I am going downhill, past the sunset,
Past everything that matters to me.  Time is like
A clock going downhill.  

The genius is in the reverie
Of the night, like a staple that glares outward into
Nothing.  Oh bitterness, I breathe you in.  Errors mistake
Me.  

I glare down into nothing, the abyss of time.  Awaken
Me into the dawn that breaks like a clock, in a clock store,
As all the clocks on the wall are going off, glaring, glaring
Like a face.  

I am the face that tells the time of nothing.

The ghosts haunt me every damn day; I wake up; pee in the
Bathroom; and the dog comes skirting in, shaking and afraid
Of something I cannot see.  

This is the roller coaster of life,

The mesmerizing tranquility of it all, the destiny that is mine

For the taking.  I am the genius going uphill to water.

Monday, October 02, 2017

October Sunshine.

The sun blinds us.  It is the first of October,
And we are thinking about all things fall-autumn
Leaves, the changing of them, and things that are different;
Pumpkin spice;  pumpkin pie; pumpkin cookies and all things
Nice.  Cooler weather, jacket weather, or whether or not things
Will get better.  Then there is Halloween at the end of October,

The very last day of October, and the costumes and candy
And bags of pretzels and golden apples; the sun blinds us on
The first of October, and everything is right because it is a different
Season, if it were the same season every day, nothing would change,

And everything would remain stagnant; fall would never arrive or maybe
It would be fall eternally, like the sunshine is at this very instant, forever
And eternal, like the love of you and me, and the sun is shining just like it is
In the Sahara desert, and the desert is quick with its blessings.  I say hello
And goodbye to it, just like I did to my last love, the love of my life who left
Me and rose like a flower in bloom.

The sun shines and it blinds us still.

Thursday, September 28, 2017

THE LIGHT ENCOMPASSES.

The Light Encompasses.

The light encompasses the whole world,
And everyone in it.  The dawn does not bend;

In it, dwells the passion like that of passionfruit
Or dragonfruit, that we eat or maybe it even eats us.

I have found something bigger than what humanity
Seeks, the durability of love, the light and the hope;

In the void, in the silence of it all, love is there,
Waving and moving in the light itself.  The Greek knew

All about love and lovemaking, and the art of it,
And how it grows bigger and bigger each time it

Encompasses the world, how there is a field of it in
A faraway valley somewhere, how the fear is there,

Shaking and shimmering, raw and putrid flesh.
I think about it often, how it wanders about the plains,

Wondering and mimicking movement, taking shape in
People, places, and things-and how, over and under,

The doubt changes, becoming a shadowy thing that

Glimmers out all fear.

These Times That Tell.

All the times I lay waiting for a miracle to happen
,
I was beginning to think I had come to the bitter end.
These past days have gone bye bye, like a clock that will

Not tell time, or a pope that will not heed to his people.
Sometimes, tomorrow comes a little too early for us to be
Thankful, and death is a little warranted, if not unstable;
And the earth is a little bit unstable and everything else is

Unstable against the running of the clock, which chugs and
Goes intermittently; and ghosts run out the minutes on your
Watch, and technology gets better but the solution gets worse;

And sometimes, you say things you shouldn’t say, and words
Get in the way, like the leaves on trees get in the way of the sunshine,

And sometimes spots of sunshine slide through ever so slowly

As the sun is waking up and the world is getting rid of the dark, the darker,
The darkest.  And sometimes you are thankful and your time is spent

Doing nothing but whining.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

How to Spot the Darkness.

How to Spot the Darkness.

The streets are curved with darkness.
Night is seeking resolution.
A man dances in the middle of the street,

Feeling his way through the dark with his
Hands.  He is not tempted to break promises.
He is thirsty.  He walks to a bar and orders
A beer, and the beer smells of urine and stale

Cigarettes; someone is throwing a glance his way,
A beautiful woman who is already married.
Someone is taking his wallet from his pocket,
Not the same woman who was glancing at him,

But someone else, this a man, with a black hat
And a black walk, the blackness is all around
Him, and he is blacker than the night outside.

Since there are stars, and the stars are burning.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

The Quietness of the Night.

In the quietness of the night,
In retrospective of it all,
We handle each situation as it comes,
And face the bitterness of things that have passed.
Things are situated before us, like raindrops on a page-
Or maybe a teardrop, full of rage.
Some things we cannot change, but the things that we can,

We take and hold and grasp them in a gentle grasp,
Molding them into the things that they can become.
Every bitter lie becomes a seed of truth, the truth that flies
In the universe like a night of stars.  The loneliness is trapped

In a shadow of the night, and everything is beamed back to you.
Sometimes, you trip over your own feet, and the wetness is

Falling all around you like drops of rain;
And everything is etched in pain,

Just as it is etched in morning dew.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

I was in Love With Pablo Neruda.

I was in Love With Pablo Neruda

I was in love with Pablo Neruda
For many long years.
We sat side by side in a café, talking
Of promises-of great, puffy clouds that sail
Through a blue sky, of a night full of stars
That stare down at us like eyes.
I have had different loves, but none was
Quite the same as this: holding hands tenderly
As we strolled down farmer’s market,
Talking of blank pages and poetry,
Talking of misadventures of being English professors
At campuses that were not for poets like us.
He was a published poet, and I, I was not.
But still, he read my poetry with ease,
As the great ones always do, and he spoke of me
Lovingly to his sister, the one who kept his promises.
She became his caregiver, in the end,
And on the bitter nights when I was alone,
After he was gone, gone as in dead,
I would sit in my rocker at my house,
Staring into space, staring at nothing, dreaming
Of the days we spent together, over stale cigarettes and red

Wine.