Birthday

Just as it has always been,
so it rears its head again;
the blackest day in all of June,
tired as the frozen moon.

I do not fault the wishers-well,
who do what noble hearts compel;
who by blood or benevolence
love me past their own good sense.

It’s not the aging that I mind,
the going bald or going blind,
it’s not the specter of the void
that always has me so annoyed.

It’s how each anniversary
recalculates the waste of me,
broadening the gulf between
the failure and his fading dream.

Let me leave them with a joke;
blowing dancing flames to smoke,
wishing to asphyxiate,
choking on my birthday cake.

You Bet My Life

All the way past Santa Fe
and down to San Anton,
I chucked the maps in Phoenix
with your letter and my phone.

You’re somewhere in the valley
with some thickneck from your gym,
staring out the window
as he tells you about him.

Oklahoma is OK,
Arkansas is sad,
a bartender in Shreveport
says he used to know my dad.

You’re somewhere by an ocean
with some buddy from your work,
going Dutch to dinner
as he tells you I’m a jerk.

And I’m blowing through Kentucky,
rolling out through Tennessee,
a diamond in my pocket
and a bottle on my knee;

in your best friend’s apartment
crying in your chardonnay -
here’s hoping your next hand is better
than the one you threw away.

Red Hots and Hard

Candyheart
stuck on a stick,
everybody
gets a lick,

sugar sweet
and cherry red,
rot your teeth
right out your head,

Candyheart,
who wouldn’t take
a finger to the
birthday cake?

Passed around
and getting thinner,
just enough
to spoil dinner,

wrapper blown
along the street,
gone as quickly
as they meet,

Candyheart
can catch an eye,
another hunger
passes by;

tears pooled in
a chocolate cup,
Candyheart
can’t fill them up.

Dirge

Pregnant skies
withhold the rain.
Charcoal rubbed clouds
wheeze up from the sea.

I am driving an empty road
next to a nervous freeway.
The cars rush past the trucks
who rush past
me.

Inhaling the harvested
celery fields,
the damp soil,
ridges of dried mud
arcing across the median.

It is funeral weather and
I am dressed for a funeral,
creased trousers, necktie,
black raincoat.

I turn the radio off
and listen to the buzz of feathered
tires on dry
asphalt.

I am as the day is,
something big
waiting for something bigger,
a promise biding time.

The howl of wind
blowing through my open window
is cold and then colder;
I feel the skin
on my scalp
contract.

I steer past the low buildings,
staked saplings,
into the parking lot.

I think ahead to the first cup
of coffee,
the scattered, cryptic notes,
trying to remember where
I left off,
who I’ve yet
to call.

Monday morning met
and there’s no rain coming down.

Pyromaniac Love Cheer

Fire chief, fire chief,
sis boom bah,
burning down the firehouse,
rah rah rah.

One for the tinder,
two for the spark,
three for the four alarm
flashing in the dark.

An I and an R and an O-N-Y,
fire chief, red sedan,
colors in the sky,
a hee
and a ha
and a ho ho ho,
fire chief, fire chief,
go,


go,


go.

Alice

stolen moments
whispered words
trembling like a
baby bird

falling silent
i succumb
sugar, spice
and opium

today dies in the ocean
tomorrow’s coming soon
driving through the darkness
beneath the Cheshire moon

bewildered and
directionless
in this perverted
wilderness

call it madness
or a dream
doesn’t matter
what you mean

today is its own answer
tomorrow is a rune
puzzling between them
beneath the Cheshire moon

gathered roses pricked –
i bled
painted snowy
petals red

simple questions
silver smoke
simpleton
who never spoke

today’s a tattered web that hangs
tomorrow’s a cocoon
broken wings are mending
beneath the Cheshire moon

some rabbits run
some rabbits laugh
some slice their blackened
hearts in half

to celebrate
what isn’t there
the bankrupt
have the most to share

dishwater spinning down the drain
reflection in a spoon
i pour another cup of tea
beneath the Cheshire moon