hearts and flowers

The forget-me-nots

lie trapped in the congealed

wax rainbow on the sidewalk

where the candles

guttered out

past midnight.

And the hearts and prayers

lovingly chalked,

scuffed away 

by squads of martial boots,

casual flats,

and track shoes.

A photograph held fast to the cobbles

by a drop of blood red wax

cuddles the image of

a young couple standing

under a summer trellis

in tux and gown.

She clutches six white

roses in one hand, her fingers

entwined with his in the other.

An empty paper cappuccino cup

rolls back and forth between

a broken candle and

the handle of a small umbrella

with bent ribs and ruptured spine,

the thin fabric embellished

with the face of some

caped hero

who never saves the day.

when the sun came up

Sun rays rake the elms

around the garden where

the old houses used to be.

now it's full 

of community beans

and tomatoes.

the Sacramento summer sunrise

promises hot and extra hot

for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,

so Robert and Henry are drinking

green quarts of Rainier Ale

from brown bags at six a.m.

Robert says they've been

off the reservation for years.

that it's hot up here in June

but the nights are cool.

not as bad as Palm Springs.

those summer nights are like an oven.

that's where they spend the winter.

at a big old camp down there

next to the railroad tracks.

it's a real old time hobo jungle

back under the tamarisk trees.

everybody there is like family.

they wanna know if I'd like a swig

I say sure, just to be sociable.

i don't generally start my day with ale,

but I want to hear their stories.

Robert is from clear lake

an' Henry's up from somewhere

in the mountains east of San Diego

they've been going north and south

like geese for years.

mostly it's all about what they like to drink

and the best places to sleep outside

in Sacramento, memories of friends

doing things like jumping off a train

going forty miles an hour and

landing on his feet running.

but he's dead now. fell asleep

one night and never woke up.

they had a big hobo memorial

down in the Coachella Valley.

say that I should come down

next winter. lot of good company

and a lot of good stories

if that's what I'm interested in.

maybe I will, maybe I will.

Flying into Seoul

On the sunset flight 

bound for Seoul,

the fire in the sky,

is all blood and roses for awhile,

then becomes

the glowing edge of a red sword

pounded on the devil's anvil

between a cobalt heaven

and the ink blue sea.

And the white noise whine

of the jet engines

calms my churning mind.

Winging west to meet the east

through the dust swept from

the Mongolian steppes

chasing the star named Sol,

before it sets,

a race I can not win.

The junior corporate executive

in the row across the aisle

downs another gin

and flicks through the offerings

on the seat back screen,

scenes of blazing guns and flaming cars,

and the soft lit creamy skin

of Hollywood vixens.

Flame-licked feathery clouds on the horizon

dim to gray as the embers of the day

grow cold as the midnight ash

in North Korean stoves.

As the jet approaches the peninsula,

a sharp bright line marks the border

between the floodlit south

and the dark mass of the north.

The flight attendant brings hot towels

to refresh we travelers as we descend

into this glittering heart of Technoland.

The sun has left us far behind

it's blazing noon across the mountains

on the mosques of Samarkand.

Abundance

I don't know

if I.

can speak

or if.

you.

can hear.

I'll try.

while everyone is asleep

in chairs, the window couch

the floor.

and your measured breath

your managed pulse

the slow drip

from all these tubes

the wires taped to your

tissue paper skin.

i couldn't find the poem I wrote.

about that fishing trip we took.

and the stuff we didn't talk about.

and the things we did.

sequoias, hot rod fords.

I wanted to read it to you

and hope that you could hear it.

if I spoke close enough to your ear,

now that afternoon's delirium was gone

and you slept in morphine's embrace.

and I couldn't find the poem

so I just told you the story

and listened to your gentle breaths

peaceful now that all the machinery

was disconnected.

all the sleepers in the room

would awaken except for you.

I slowed my breath to walk with yours

until it became too slow for me to match.

you slept through another day

deep into another night

and in a moment imprecise,

you stopped.

a thousand miles south

a new baby seemed to wait

for you to pass,

struggling against entering

this world as much as you

fought not to leave it.

she's here now.

and you're gone.

Happiness

There was a moment

before this moment

before this morning

before this day.

They pile up.

like silt, like snow, like sand.

And I could sift them

for the gifts and sorrows

as if the sum of life

was entries in a ledger

the red outnumbered

by the black.

Where would I account for

the pleasure of stroking red gold hair?

and the moonless hilltop

where I once screamed in despair?

or how I made art from garbage,

spent years allowing love to fade,

betrayed by lust.

more than once, I'm afraid.

Tried to capture life in silver crystal grains,

chased the empty cup,

dared to drink the water,

crossed the country on my thumb,

shed my fantasies

of nuclear devastation

saved by juvenile infatuation

between the legs of a german whore.

Saw death dim the eyes

of a comrade murdered.

His blood stained my jeans

where it trickled through my fingers.

I lost my faith in revolution

but not the rage.

Felt the animal in my soul

fly out through a saxophone

inchoate, raw and joyful,

now it hides in memory's garage.

I held a newborn girl,

a genius now at seven,

two days before the country

said yes to hope.

I fall asleep at eleven

almost always easily,

as reports of wars and weather

blend with my lover's gentle snores.

The Kiss

Nick & Sara sat on the steps

in the warm fog after school.

Despite the view of riders on the 71,

it was a more private place to kiss in bliss,

out of sight of Sara's bratty sister Kate

who would surely tattle if they went to her room.

The 71 Noriega rattled by, the passengers still

excitedly talking about and gawking at

the Hibernia Bank branch where a couple months before,

the kidnapped heiress turned so-called revolutionary

had brandished a gun and struck a suitably militant stance

topped with the obligatory revolutionary black beret.

The sleepy avenues it seemed, had not had

so much to see and gossip about in years.

Nick and Sara didn't care, lip locked on the stairs,

oblivious to the stares, they had at least an hour's bliss

til Sara's mom would arrive from her part time cashier job

at the Walgreen's Pharmacy over on Ocean.

Besides. It had never been like this,

so fine, so soft, so luscious,

now that Sara's braces had been removed.