The wilted gladioli hanging on Mrs. Farnsworth’s windowsill.
The polar bearskin rug, white fur on ice, in a lonely Inuit’s igloo.
The newspaper flapped open in the old man’s skinny lap.
The maroon robe, loose and holy, hanging on a thin Tibetan monk,
the color of blood — so that you never forget about Death.
Please take all your blessings and cursing and late night phone calls and drive- thru meals and cologne and frequent flyer miles and disbursements of hard-hearted human aching along with you when you go.
Turn the radio low.
Let the bird from its cage.
Life said, “I swear you’ve been here before.”
“I don’t make that mistake, friend,” I replied.
The 16 year-old’s Ipod.
The sweater on a tiny dog.
The bacon sizzling in the pan.
The world is just one big party, man.
The pious Prius driver driving 65.
The tourist taking a picture of the pier.
The lovers, naked, under the sheets.
The fisherman pulling in his catch.
I am a Walt Whitman poem he never wrote:
washing dishes in the afternoon sink, an afternoon sun
shining through the window on an afternoon me.
My girlfriend asked, “Are you still writing, love?”
I told her quietly, “I’m just getting started, baby.”
There are tomatoes in the garden and they are really thirsty.
There is a man in a plum v-neck standing on the street, lighting a cigarette.
My wine has a Spanish accent.
I saw the reflection of a saint in a storefront window.
The mannequin was headless and made of plastic,
wearing a scarf that looked like metal.
The saint was pushing a shopping cart and was hungry.
The ghost was lonely and bored.
The plumber sighed a miserable sigh
as he tucked himself under the sink.
She said, “if I come back I want to come back as a house cat.”
And I didn’t tell her this, but I was thinking, I don’t want to leave.
A car speeds by, radio blaring, there’s music sine waves floating behind it.
There’s a pigeon that just lighted down from nowhere, all wing-flap and pecking.
There’s golden sunlight. There’s science everywhere. There are children drawing chalk families on the sidewalk. There’s a wrinkle in the sky where a jet passes by.
This pineapple is real sweet, it’s the little things! It stimulates my taste buds.
I want to move to Hawaii, work in a wine shop, wear sandals, drop out.
I want the world to recognize that my heart is bigger than it is.
I want sweetness to never end, a kiss that lasts a year, a baby with my eyes.
There was a murder down the street, of a man who looked like me.
I go to eat lunch, the din of voices drown me in a current of thoughts.
While the ladies stab pieces of lettuce, I daydream about deep-sea diving.
Reefs are dying while we’re driving to the mall to purchase our gentle demise.
I type as fast as my fingers will allow, please don’t yell. No more yelling.
No more praying. No more poetry. No more passive acquiescence.
No more parting of lips allowing hot anger to escape.
The sparrow flees its king. I hold my hand, palm up, out to it.
The sparrow wants nothing to do with me, prefer I were a worm.
We are but a moment’s wayward thought, God’s idle chicanery.
“Are you coming to bed now?”
“Yes, darling. Let me turn this off.”