Poems

Unauthorized biographies abound,
but I, for one, feel ready for the spotlight.
Am I a worthy subject? Pound for pound,
I'm neither the receiver of a Fulbright,
nor scholar, Rhodes or otherwise. MacArthur
would not have deemed me worthy of a grant.
A laureate gig likely a non-starter,
and I cannot philosophize, no Kant.
And yet I feel that I contain a story;
there's something that's demanding to pour out,
to claim its place in gloried inventory
of masterpieces one can talk about
without having read them. Coffee table.
I'd like to place it there if I am able.

Still looking.

That's what I tell people
when they ask me: where do
you want to retire?

Oh, there's a perfect place.
I can see it as clear as I
can see myself in the mirror.

High up on a granite cliff
overlooking the Pacific
as it fights to claim its
piece of the American Dream.

That's where I'd like to
retire. Right there, where
the eternal sunshine lights
up the angry, futile spray of the
waves, and the bracing wind
fills your nostrils with the scent
of salt and iodine as you sip
your coffee, and you say

dammit, but I've made it,
I've made it to the best
place on Earth, and the stirrings
of the planet's crust way
down below may be a
warning sign, but you can
ignore it, because there's
still time. There's still
time.

Isn't there?

Arithmetic, try as you might to sate her
with decimals and fractions of the whole,
demands more than a common numerator
when adding, as a point of protocol,
uneven parts. And ditto with subtraction.
Multiplication, that it does with ease,
both top and bottom get in on the action,
achieving simultaneous release.
(I might add, parenthetically, division,
the long one, and the short of it, in kind,
when otherwise unwrecked by indecision
won't pay an operator any mind)
So calculating, you might call it scheming,
though I believe that quality redeeming.

How cold is the city: lit up for the season,
so vain and so pretty that you might well reason
it's warm and embracing, the truth though, remains.
You'd better be bracing, there's ice in its veins.

Author notes: image from pinterest

Ask the Man on the Moon:
are the snow covered pines,
branches ready to swoon,
they are looking for signs,
any signs from above...
Does he give them his love?

It's always either over or beyond,
but never underneath it or below.
Add adjectives galore to correspond,
evoking its magnificence and glow,
as if the rainbow isn't really there,
illusive as its cousin the horizon,
oblivious and wholly unaware
of efforts by the crotchety and wizened
to treat it as no more than a mirage,
a metaphor for all that isn't destined
and everything that isn't, a collage
assembled by romantics that go questing
in voyages that seek the rainbow's end.
All hopeless, but preferring to pretend.

You ever wonder why it tries so hard?
The water in the ocean, as it churns,
impressing with apparent disregard
for our inane and meaningless concerns,
and stressing, as it does, its boundless measure,
why does it bother, only to agree,
as waves roll to and fro in seeming leisure
that it's been long since conquered, no more free
than seagulls on the wing are free from hunger,
or waterspouts that fail to claim the sky.
I rarely thought of such when I was younger,
but lately tend to wallow in the why.
And as to why I find it so appealing?
Some sort of sign. The ocean knows the feeling.

Obedient, like any beast of burden
that's trained to carry water up the hill.
Ambivalent, equivocal, uncertain,
and lacking all initiative and will.

No, that's not you? You style yourself a rebel.
Important, of some consequence, at least,
when you are hardly more than just a pebble,
unworthy of a cease or a desist.

An insect, inconvenient when splattered --
a dirty windshield, not much of a chore --
Would someone notice? Have you ever mattered?
Here, wipe your tears and don't be such a bore.

What's harder than irrelevance? To wit,
what's worse than if you matter not a bit?

My thoughts on '24? You must be kidding.
Then I shall have to bet on Armageddon.
It's true enough, pandemic is receding,
but has it failed in its attempt to deaden,
to permanently dent our sense of taste?
One only needs to taste the air for Freedom--
deep breath, all the way in, start at the waist --
it's missing right? Smell too, but do you need them?
Much easier to tolerate manure
when you can't taste or smell, so life is better,
if greasier and blander to be sure.
And Freedom? You'd do better to forget her.
Remember though, the world will end but once.
My thoughts on '24? There is a chance.

With infamy their tireless pursuit,
and each one of a mind to be the winner,
the seven deadly sins had a dispute.
To settle it, found a prospective sinner,
and tempted him with all that they could muster,
which one of them is deadlier, the quest.
The prize?  Their bust in gold and alabaster,
but bragging rights is what they wanted best.
The challenge -- who goes first, and in what order?
Pope Gregory was chosen as a guide,
and history, a dutiful recorder,
lists Lust as first and terminates in Pride.
But this was, by no means, an easy choice!
Let's give the seven deadly sins a voice.

Let's give the seven deadly sins a voice.
Lust, teaming up with Gluttony, went first.
Expecting boys to, after all, be boys,
they targeted a certain kind of thirst,
sweet chocolate, cold grapes, whipped cream and cherry,
appeared as buxom maidens in the flesh,
seductive in their movements, wild and merry,
their laughter music, voices young and fresh.
They'll tempt him with the fruit or with their curves
or failing that, with both, and split the win.
He looked at them, and maybe it was nerves,
but otherwise unmoved, he didn't sin,
and therefore had no reason to atone.
Perhaps Lust should have tried for it alone.

Perhaps Lust should have tried for it alone,
Greed thought, and having learned this useful lesson,
neglected to seek allies for the throne.
She saw no need to share, to split, to lessen
her ill-begotten prize.  No, he's all hers,
seduced with silver, diamonds and gold.
Dressed in abundant, flowing sable furs,
a gilded thread through every nook and fold,
she couldn't have expected his reaction.
"Too much", he said, and turned to look away,
while leaving her to stare in stupefaction,
unable to convince him or to sway
their charge to evil deeds, she too was stumped.
Ignored, unceremoniously dumped.

Ignored, unceremoniously dumped,
Greed slumped away defeated. Here comes Sloth.
You'd think, enthusiastic, she'd have jumped
at this unlikely chance but she is loath
to make a move of any kind. Indeed
if there's a way to idle, doing naught,
then that is how Sloth chooses to proceed,
and so she did, or didn't, or forgot,
but ultimately making no attempt
to win the bet, to make her charge a sinner,
she failed to even try to test, to tempt,
and he, observing, shrugged, an easy winner,
while asking "that's the best that you can do?"
Sloth couldn't care less, lazy, through and through.

Sloth couldn't care less, lazy, through and through.
The thought of it brought Wrath to easy rage.
Fists clenched, she called their charge to task:  "hey you!
Sloth may just be too lazy to engage,
but don't expect the same from me, you loser!
What shall I call you, since you're not a man.
How could a man see Lust, and then refuse her?
Your lack of appetites destroyed her plan,
and Greed's to boot.  You have no need of money,
because you're not a man.  No, you are dust.
My sisters may attempt, as flies to honey,
to lavish you, to tempt you, as they must,
but I will give you naught but righteous anger!
I will not fail as Sloth, in sluggish languor!"

"I will not fail as Sloth, in sluggish languor!"
Yes, that was Wrath, but our prospective sinner
remained unmoved by all the ire and rancor,
and though the clock was showing well past dinner,
did not appear as weakening at all,
but rather growing stronger by the minute,
was righteousness itself, no harm, no fall.
Now Envy's turn, and she is truly in it.
"Come, stranger", she then said. "Is there no thing,
no secret wish or person or desire,
no artifact, no fetish and no bling?
No inner voice that's whispering: aim higher?
No anger at your relegated station?
Is that why you're resisting your damnation?"

"Is that why you're resisting your damnation?"
Did Envy find a weakness in their charge?
Pride, grabbing at this hint of hesitation,
continued: "Shouldn't you be living large?
Magnificent, impressive as you are,
impervious to Gluttony or Lust!
Example to us all, a shooting star,
unswayed by Greed, left Sloth down in the dust,
and cool, so cool when in the face of Wrath.
I must confess I envy your composure,
and wish that I could follow in your path.
Accept us, and lead all of us to closure.

And Satan spread his wings, with eyes aglow.
Said "thank you Pride, you had me at hello."

Effect despised his allocated role.
To have to follow Cause, damn the torpedoes,
and never ever, ever in control.
Why didn't he, when choosing among credos,
pick one where he would get to be in charge?
Instead, he's stuck with playing second fiddle
and can't make a decision, small or large.
At best he's not in front but in the middle.
But he's not losing hope: turns out that quanta
tend to dismiss causality at will.
Don't like the outcome? Wishlist granting Santa
can grant you with another, and, no bill!
Causation, as they say, no correlation,
and Cause, to this Effect, is no relation.

Considering the depth of your performance --
as shallow and as muddy as a puddle --
can't give you any points for non-conformance,
assuming that desire to befuddle
and discombobulate is what had driven
creative choices, set design and costumes,
since those are sadly, nowadays, a given.

But I'll confess that like so many bridegrooms
I entertained escape through intermission,
though somehow, persevered to the finale,
no, not because mine is a noble mission,
but rather 'cause your goons out in the alley
behind the theater refused me exit.
So here is my review, I thought I'd text it.