The Lantern (poem)

The Lantern

The soft glow through star holes
flicker crude scenes of space on the ceiling.
I think about our need to reach out,

but, the tea light in my lantern is enough.

The Injector (poem)

All it takes is a steady hand
to reveal a vein and then
insert needle
right arm and left.
Efficiency is routine practice--
a backup injection.

Can't just hold the switch down anymore
the days of Old Sparky
a Texas cookout of brains
and seared flesh
under a brown leather veil
are over
unless chosen.

What barbarians!
The Injector is a calm executioner,
murder made classy
with an alcohol swab--
dignified.
Staring down men in their dimmest
moment.
And all the doctor can do
in the corner of the room
eyes closed...
is to meditate
before he declares death.

Chrysler (poem)

Rounded ledges
Invite
Beckon
To your iron-clad, shell-shingled
Beacon
Take hold
And heed the revolving doors
On guard
Eight grey-stoned gargoyles
Frozen yet arial
Rudder flaps
Radiator caps
On this futuristic missile
But still grounded in their gaze
Looking out and down
At the enterers
Some so lucky
Reaching the triangulated windows
Solar-flared decorations
For viewing
The Empire State
Made of a million monoliths
Surrounded
By tempered glass
Mirroring each other
Cities reflecting cities

Brother's Wisdom (poem)

I'm learning from him, as he makes the car dance with another corner
a nose-dive swivel, shifting down...then quickly up
his portrait created by the doorframe, but with a moving picture show
beyond the window.
The pin-pointed ends of his smile rising with the orange needle on the speedometer.
0 and he's antsy
30 with a smirk
60 only a second later
100 is laughter
I'm secure in my seat only because I trust him in his.

Finally cruising,
A slow enough speed for an opinion.
I can stop hoarding my feelings and let loose the weights
and even though his eyes are fixed, words are accepted.

I'm learning from him. His advice, when we get out,
She's a bitch, move on.
With his hand on my shoulder.

MoMA (poem)

Curly hair, twisted and twirled
Mesmerizing vines of brown
Reaching up
Up towards the painted green helicopter
In the MoMA

And on the second floor I stare
At trashy props from Godot
A grown-up's tricycle
Garbage worn and rust collected
A sand-colored stool steering wheel

Uninspiring
But, if you explain Descartes I will listen
The first time in a year my interest wasn't forced

Then a distraction
A drawing of a shadowy hand
Your impulse to mimic
You take your slender fingers
Unlike mine
Short-nailed left
Callus adorned tips
Just like mine
You gave up
"Impossible," you said
And up until then I thought so too

Faith's Derivation (poem)

This is a modern sonnet written with a Petrarchan rhyme scheme.



When I do think of tender desire,
I ponder faith and what it does imply.
Is it blissful belief boiled in brine, my
salty taste buds would have me inquire,
that make a long hike for a holy crier
worth worn souls and torn skin? This bloody
pursuit to Eden troubles the mind, unsteady,
from lack of reason that faith will lift higher.
A mind of logic, not lazy consort to God,
would willfully subject to findings of reason
but will woefully not be spared the "rod."
The arcane bolt never thrown for treason;
cast aside by the tumultuous mob,
who instead slam a hammer at logic and reason.