Old Man's Song

"Only the death in my eyes,"
the gray man assured,
mounted in his hickory rocking-chair,
"can keep the breeze of life
from blowing in me. And that's why
I keep them closed."

He let his mouth close
around his last words and began
to blindly hum a guttural hymn
I did not recognize. The man
rose his arms into the room
with flamenco patience
shifting his ragged weight
forward in the chair. Worried, I
sat opened mouth with my eyes
shinning across the room
toward him. The hickory rocking-chair
lurched forward, tilting the hungry frame
of the man out onto his bent legs.

The man then rose his voice
as he did his arms, first
into his high neck then
into his alarm-mouth,
wailing, with his lungs
behind him, some holy song.

And I started clapping along,
staring, nearly drooling,
at my hands which had
naturally slid into the rhythm
without my noticing when.

And he sang for what seemed like hours.

Watching the Clock

I stalked the clock
following the falling
seconds, rubbing my hands

back-and-forth on the desk,
trying to drag them
with the rhythm of the day.

My dry hands scraped
the surface of the cheap desk,
raking the sound of desert rock-sand.

Rubbing the desk I found
my own time and sweat trails
swirled under my progress.

The scraping turned to
sloshing while I routed
my oasal puddles. The clock
evaporated from purpose.

Driving Someplace New

Your chest shook
in your flannel shirt;
you were a rattle,

jabbering on about the car,
the traffic, and weather.
I did not care

if it was overcast
or if we were stranded
in the rush hour standstill.

We left early enough
not to worry about mirages.
I could have bathed

myself in your saucer eyes,
glinting over me driving
and the landscape blurring

behind us. You smiled,
full of happy secrets
and plans. I only knew

because you held my hand,
squeezing with every heavy
sigh after hours of miles.

Again, again.

The clicking keys crash
into plastic pecks dotting
each keystroke decision.
Am I writing again?
I must be.
Don't hush me.
Let these fingers frisson
across whatever manifesto
they happen across.
Let them burn the albatross
from the sky and fling love
letters between the thighs
of every panting maiden.
Hands, surprise me.
Brain, infatuate me.
Let's send this empty space
into space and reflect
on the journey. Let's fly,
soar, and score in whatever
arenas we invent. There will be time
for form later. Let's just write now.

Let’s Go Out Tonight

I need flashing lights
and the 1980’s playing
in my ears. I need dancing
and a bass line pulsing deep
like twilight traffic on a Friday night
with the coast in view. Make me
a white sports car so we cruise
to synthesizer screens and count
the shades of cocaine neon distracting us.

Dizzy me into a slow burning morning
and another layer of stubble
rings on the tree of my face
counting my good nights.

I want camera flashes
and still memories
and to linger on the trip there
in swagger-tilted attitude.

Let’s go out tonight.