Prologue:
August is the shopper in front of me
chatting up a cashier while my ice cream melts,
the guy in flip flops behind me
who learned nothing from the covid years,
the sudden text saying, are you in line yet?
I forgot, we really need dinner rolls,
but all I want to do is get back home
and have some chocolate peanut butter swirl
if it’s still good.
1. Questions To Ask Before The World Ends
Will I see the city from the bridge?
May I help pick the music?
How will I get to New Parnassus?
Will there still be aubergine, pewter, and jade?
Will I be able to find decent coffee?
Will there be any sunflowers left?
Will the moon finally break after all she’s seen?
Will terms and conditions no longer apply?
Will the iamb and anapest survive?
Will there be a made for TV movie?
What will it mean if I find the spring
of a ball point pen in the rubble?
Will each side of the false dichotomy
blame the other side, or blame us?
How will we define apocalypse?
Will there be a mascot, a logo, a catch phrase?
Will conspiracy theorists finally be vindicated?
Will the night sky wear prosthetic stars?
Will anyone notice?
2. Arrivade
(The antonym of aubade)
Maybe I’m being carried by a river
and you are downstream;
maybe I’m floating in the ether
toward the heaven where you are;
maybe I’m waiting in the fog
to see your lamp approaching;
maybe I’m locked in a dream,
trying to breach its walls
to find you waiting outside.
3. Wind Map
It does not have to warn me
when it plans to shift.
I cannot see it
but I follow its trail
of fallen branches,
of overturned chairs,
a crumpled grocery list
rolling by like a tumbleweed,
the way my hair
points north
as I walk to the gate
at day’s end
wondering which losses
will surprise me next
and which remnants
will surprise me even more.
4. Villanelle (After Reading The News)
The times are far between and few
when peace gets critical acclaim.
It’s been a minute, maybe two
since righteousness received its due
and faith its modicum of fame.
The times are far between and few
when lines are clear between what’s true
and false when someone makes a claim.
It’s been a minute, maybe two
since trust was something to accrue
to cultivate a spotless name.
The times are far between and few
when two opposing points of view
can talk without affixing blame.
It’s been a minute, maybe two
since love was something we’d pursue,
an altogether worthy aim.
The times are far between and few;
it’s been a minute, maybe two.
5. Détente
I had a staring contest with the void —
it blinked first.
But not really.
6. Storm
The wind pelts the window
with asemic characters of rain,
inviting me to assign
whatever meaning I want
but every droplet
is an almost-thought
sliding downward
into a puddle of language
I nearly understand.
7. Flying Blind, Part 1
The stars must still be there,
though they are invisible
behind the breath of the world,
the gray fabric on my windshield;
and home exists somewhere
in front of me, but tonight the drive
is a long, tense note in a song
waiting for a resolution.
8. Fake Flowers
They litter the flat areas,
those cheap little ceramic pots
filled with styrofoam, aquarium stones,
and some made-up genus
of mass produced, injection molded,
pale green and yellow faux-liage,
the visual equivalent of babbling.
They collect dust, block bookshelves,
perhaps hold a listening device.
They never grow, never need water,
colors never fade, petals never drop.
There is no risk, no miracle, no investment,
they are not fragile like the real thing.
I want something real to hold me accountable,
to give me joy, then break my heart.
9. Dreamless
My eyes contain a galaxy,
my ears an f minor sustained
waiting all night behind
the blank space of sleep
until morning when synapses
that piled up during the night
vie for my attention
like hungry children.
10. Flying Blind, Part 2
Today my head spins
like a compass in a storm
and I wonder,
is it lack of sleep,
did I overdo it yesterday,
am I just getting old?
Either way, it would be
tremendously helpful
if my local grocery store
would stop moving
the damned tortillas
to different aisles.
11. Inventory, Part 1
My red brick walkway
dotted with old rain;
grass, green as a promise,
high as a prayer;
the groundhog
who steals my tomatoes;
expired coupons
crumpled in the glove box;
a mysterious hum
in the distance;
cream and sugar
without the sugar;
the evening itch,
the nightmares by day,
the ushering in
and the ushering out
of things not ready
to leave or arrive.
12. Peridot
Green is green
whether it’s formed
in the bowels of the earth
or imported from space;
you are you,
and I’m so glad you are here.
(For Jess and Kyle)
13. Perseid
Which part of the sky
will fall tonight?
14. Golden Hour
The sun clocks in later
and clocks out earlier
but I still put in a full day.
The moment it rises,
the moment it sets,
like ghosts of the future,
like echoes before music,
I feel the tilt of the earth.
15. All That Begins
For all that begins there’s an ending,
against gravity nobody wins;
when we feel most alive death is pending
for all that begins.
Though we feel so at home in our skins,
there will soon be no use in pretending
as we pray for forgiveness of sins,
and consult with the doctors attending,
call the preacher and cue violins
’cause we’re all on the clock — there’s an ending
for all that begins.
16. Inventory, Part 2
A notebook of obsolete thoughts,
joints like rusty hinges;
three tiers of widow eyes,
the Abyss on Main;
everyone on the outskirts
trying to clean up the edges.
17. A Person Wandering Around On The Front Door Cam
Every day he leaves,
dragging his feet a little slower;
every night he returns,
hunching over a little lower.
18. Cloudy Afternoon
What is the weight of clouds?
Are they like vessels in the sky,
lighter than the air they displace,
weightless as phantoms, heavy as pools?
I could easily find the answers,
but I am badly in need of a mystery
to almost make things interesting
on this blank and busted day.
19. Bread And Circuses
The bread is moldy and stale, and besides,
everyone seems to have gluten allergies.
No more heads in the open mouths of lions,
no more highwires, flaming rings, or cannons,
and the fire marshall will not allow big tops.
What good is a safe, breadless circus anyway?
20. Flying Blind, Part 3
Somewhere ahead, a contingent of the world waits
with a query, an intervention, a road closure.
I know I’m just another groove in a pavement,
though I have an entire universe inside me
trying to escape and make a name for itself.
The world is as glorious and awful as it always was
but I have an evolving catalogue of addictions
and a trail of mid-metaphor diversions behind me.
Then Van Morrison hits a note on Cypress Avenue
and, for a moment, I know exactly where I’m going.
21. Shift’s End
We’ll head for home together,
tonight, Selene and I;
I’ll ride a seat of leather,
and she will ride the sky.
22. Creativity
The act of loving something alone
is a unique, sacred brand of loneliness,
secret as a sonnet trapped in a pen
or a song trying to escape a guitar.
23. Monument
Simeone Automotive Museum, Philadelphia, PA
How a memory turns
blue as grief with a pearl stripe;
how steering hands become
jagged branches scraping the sky;
how street lights blink and pass
and spectres of fog rise;
and how, under spectrum lights,
an object can be full of ghosts,
old ones and new ones at once.
(After seeing the twin engine 1970 Chevelle my father built in the 90s)
24. The Sound Of An Ending
A newspaper slapping a breezeway,
a lipstick smeared wineglass
gently pushed aside for a refill,
an off-season boardwalk busker
crooning acapella blues
for a handful of mainstays;
or perhaps a tiny bell
on the collar of a faithful dog
who tugs at your sleeve at 2 AM
and leads you to a window,
or to the bedside of someone
for whom it really is the end of the world.
25. For Dolly Parton
Country Music Hall of Fame,
Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame,
Songwriters Hall of Fame,
Rock & Roll Hall of Fame,
Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award,
10 Grammy Awards,
9 Country Music Association Awards,
13 Academy of Country Music Awards,
CMA Entertainer of the Year,
CMA Female Vocalist of the Year,
National Medal of Arts,
Kennedy Center Honors,
Dozens of hit songs across several genres,
etc, etc, etc —
and yet, she is remembered most
for her kindness and generosity.
26. A rainy night ..
thoughts of eternity
keep me awake.
27. What If I Told You?
What if I told you
there were no more corners
worth cutting,
that there is no bottom line,
that no one is coming,
that they are replacing the road signs
and leaving the potholes?
What if I warned you
not to take the hand
offered you in a dream?
28. To The Couple Making Love On The Dunes
Wildwood, NJ, Late night, circa 1986
I wonder if you remember me
happening upon you by accident,
then quickly rushing off.
I was searching for myself,
and maybe for God,
but I found you instead.
Are you both still living?
Did you stay together?
Perhaps you are long married,
hosting your grown children
and grandchildren
in a two story colonial.
Maybe one of you
is mourning the loss
of the other.
Maybe you are distant memories
to one another
like you are to me,
like I am to myself,
like the magic of summer
before we called off the search.
29. DNR
No heroics, he insisted
when he was still able to insist.
I imagine one must revere life
to let it end on its own terms.
30. Summer Breeze
My neighbor was in her backyard
listening to a classic 70’s pop song
ruined by a dance beat remix
and with a straight face you said,
that must be how the swallows know
it’s time to migrate south.
31. Anomaly
The world is still itself today —
birds are not skittering,
clocks are running forward,
rain continues to obey gravity,
traffic lights still turn red;
I am on my way to see you,
stopped behind a small truck
loaded with baby pine trees,
each one green with promise
and wearing a little blue tag
that moves lazily in the wind.
And I am on my way to see you —
your house gets six feet closer
with every turn of my radials,
and six feet more, and six more.
I am on my way to see you
for what could be the last time.
Epilogue:
August leaves a trail of dead:
a novel only halfway read,
a dried up, wilting garden bed,
a muted color scheme;
August is a severed thread
with Autumn still too far ahead —
too early for the gold and red,
too late to be redeemed.
