Poems

Although my truths could be lies
Because I don’t know any
Better than what I say right now,
The star bright night holds greater truth
Than any words I can muster, but
I would never mislead you as to
Anything in this or any other world.

I feel that I am filling up with time
Not full of days like some ancient sage
But full enough to notice
That the great glob of time within me
Is beginning to ferment into a bitter hooch
That dulls me into stupid, hoochy thoughts
I don’t understand you
Everything moves too fast
That’s not music
What’s with all the tattoos?
Even though I swore back in 1967
That I would never think those thoughts
We are but paltry flesh balloons
Filled with the juice of days
Fermenting away until we swell and burst
Psychedelic splatters on a cosmic sidewalk

That robin and his persistent call of "Marco"
I answer with "Polo" and the game is afoot.
It's early, only January, and frost still covers the grass.
His loneliness has brought him out in the cold.

I am happy to befriend him and tell him so.
He will meet others of his kind later,
Likely even a lady who will want to get to know him
In the way that robins do.

But for now, it's me and him.
Marco and Polo until one of us grows weary
Or cold and moves on to other sport
We two frosty playmates.

Constantly confused, the eye sees
Borders between dreams and waking,
Past and present boundaries
Impinge one on another
In the dim light of refined memory.

In the dim light of refined memory,
We know an inaccessible reality
As tactile and factual as our today,
Forever glimpsed, but never seen,
A crossing point among probabilities.

A crossing point among probabilities,
Immanent and ephemeral beings,
We become “the place where
Creation is working itself out,”
Participants commissioned in time.

Participants commissioned in time,
A dissipated past, a pregnant future,
In a city’s newborn block’s buildings,
The sun crowds through windows,
No one stands ready to see the light.

Every time I make a joke,
It's like wearing a hat,
Shading my eyes,
I cover my graying hair
With riddles and limericks.

My witty banter is just
Vertical stripes to give the
Illusion of slimming me down.
I am holding my stomach in
With every pun.

Without the laughs,
I stand here naked,
And really, who wants to
See that? No one,
Least of all, me.