In Memoriam

The scythe is swinging freely this spring.

what will summer bring?

I remember, Bud,

when we climbed the 768 steps

of the Munster church in Ulm.

and gazed through the golden haze

to distant fields and villages,

the gleaming Donau's snaking course.

A view that only birds and angels shared

before the last stone was mortared into place.

And why we traded hats.

Because you decided that

you didn't like the old style field cap

you bought and preferred

the new structured ones

that now were standard issue.

And that was fine with me.

I liked the old ones better.

So I've kept it all these years.

Still has your name inscribed inside.

-and your social security number.

Man, I guess you weren't worried

about somebody stealing your identity.

And you were right, because you were

one of a kind, the kindest man I ever knew

who suited up in olive green.

francis and francie

francis

longs for the erections

he had at twenty

but not the desperation

-the two a.m. departure

in the cold.

and francie curses

what gravity

and the twins did

to her stomach and her tits.

not something they confide in

after the last forensic drama

ends at ten o'clock

before the news,

when they set the alarm

for mornings spent

with greek style yogurt

and dark roast beans from costco

and the drama waiting

on their favorite websites.

most of which

they don't share.

by eight

they are capable

of conversation.

dinner plans and chores,

appointments.

and of course

the chance of rain.

francie has a text from sally

asking about a birthday party

for the twins on saturday.

they have a theme

and can she bring

some stuff for gift bags,

gender neutral of course

because,  you know.

and francis stares

in wonder at a video

of radioactive wolves

roaming the ruins of pripiyat,

hunting rabbits.

francie says

you ready, hon?

the girls have

a sleep over friday

if you want to maybe

do something?

and francis fantasizes

the things he'd like to do

to her on friday night,

if only he was still

the way he was

at twenty.

ponders if it's time

to consider medication.

francie pictures

the five minutes

of satisfactory routine

while the audi commercial

and the push up bra commercial

and the teasers for the latest,

last minute-est titillations

playing on the tube unmuted,

accompany their coupling.

Cereal Killers

He lost it in the cereal aisle one day,

when the Quaker Oats man spoke:

Beware young man, the tiger

and the leprechaun

are building sugar bombs.

and the Rice Krispies boys

are packing heat.

They'll melt your brain

into a marshmallow.

Panicked now, he scrambled

round the end display

into the canned meats

and vegetables aisle.

A well-aimed asparagus spear

thrown by a tall green man

whizzed past his ear.

-Quick, over here, the mermaid

beckoned from her can.

The talking tuna next to her

grumbled and flicked his stogie,

-don't get fooled son,

she's just a piece of tail.

-That's right amigo

said the salsa senorita,

I bet you like it hot.

-or maybe not, maybe

the boy would enjoy

something dark and sweet

the brown, buxom woman

on the big-bottomed bottle drawled.

-come to mama, sugar,

I got what you need.

That's when he finally lost it all,

fell to the floor and began

his desperate crawl

around the corner

to the liquor department

seeking the spirit named Jack,

but he'd settle for an old crow.

It only took half a minute

Take six hundred acres

of misguided urban policy.

Stack the poor and brown

in institutional boxes.

Fold in some fervent would be

outside agitators holding on

to the remnants

of our sixties radicalism

waving our little red books

and big red flags.

March through the public

housing projects where

the Primera Flats Homeboys compete

with the Cuatro Flats Vatos Locos

for neighborhood supremacy.

Turn up the heat

from the LAPD red squad

who have infiltrated

an undercover officer

who is gleaning information

from the Party member

that he's fucking.

Wait for things to boil over

in Boyle Heights,

and they did.

And a man who overestimated

his revolutionary popularity

wound up on the sidewalk dead.

Somebody shouted, Knife!

Gus spun and ran three steps

towards me before his legs

went all rubbery and he timbered

face first onto the sidewalk. Hard.

I rolled him over onto his back.

The knife cut on his throat

open like a little mouth, hardly bled,

the one through his heart

was the one that did.

His breath was ragged

and his eyes quickly changed

from the warm earthy brown of spring

to the cold of winter mud.

Half a minute, maybe

was all it took for him to go.

I don't know why

I noticed once again

the thin edge of a gold filling

on his tooth.

We called him Gus, an alias

'cause we all had noms de guerre.

Might have been short for

a favorite Uncle Gustavo

or maybe it was just whimsy.

It didn't fit him well, too small.

Pinched him like a pair

of thrift store oxfords.

We tossed it after he was gone,

Vaya con Dios, Damian Garcia.

Worlds in collision

Picking out notes

one by one

on the hundred year old

hundred dollar piano,

composing idly

mid afternoon.

No job or prospects,

nobody else at home

the unexpected happened

-the doorbell rang.

Two young people

dressed for Sunday

on this Monday

with pamphlets in their hands

I would have said no thanks

but I was bored.

And the girl was about as pretty

as any girl I'd ever seen

so I asked them to come in.

We talked about the coming End Times

which was very appealing  to me,

stuck in this suburban cocoon

rattling around my family's house

writing songs on a piano

one note at a time.

And every minute spent

discussing the Book of Revelations

was a minute I could stare

at the girl's eyes and lips and hair.

Half an hour later,

it was time for them to go

but we made a date for them

to return a few days later

for further conversation.

I guess you could say

that I was a real shit

because I didn't really expect

the four horsemen of the Apocalypse

to come riding across the earth,

or the seven seals to be broken

and the seven trumpets to blast

and the seven bowls to pour out

God's wrath.

-Much as I wanted it to be true.

But if it meant the pretty girl would come back,

I'd be a happy host.

I'd read an interesting book the year before,

suggested by my favorite teacher in his Logic class,

the only class I kept attending after dropping out of high school.

Immanuel Velikovsky's Worlds in Collision

which correlated celestial events in the sacred scriptures

of many cultures as actual historical events.

Moses parting the Red Sea,

the pillar of fire the Israelites

followed through the desert......

He said it was all

from the burning sphere called Venus

trapped by Earth's gravity for years

triggering the cataclysms

recorded by the ancient scribes.

I floated the idea to the Witnesses

and the pretty one looked pained.

I was disappointing her

and when I did not refrain

from my secular speculations

she said that Satan

was poisoning my mind,

trying to seduce them

and wasting their time.

I admitted that seduction

was something

to which I was inclined,

but of a different kind.

She blushed and said they'd better leave

and the high color in her cheeks,

the flame in her eyes aroused me,

even in my shame.

I said that I was sorry

as I walked them to the door

that my deception was born from loneliness

and that I realized my apology was poor.

The house was quiet then

and I took the water glasses we had shared

to the kitchen and tossed the Watchtower

in the trash, sat down at the piano

and note by note,

wrote a melody

as bleakly minor as I felt.

Jumpy House

Nothing moves at noon,

the sun’s so high

the heat is audible:

like a 3 a.m. television

hissing on an empty channel.

The tabby cat

sprawls in the shade

under the Toyota

in the driveway, yawning,

waiting for dusk to fall

to mask his stripes,

his hunt for midnight mice.

The toads who sang all night

are silent in their damp holes,

patient, biding the hours until the

after-sunset-warty-orgy resumes

and fills the semi-toxic ponds

with clouds of eggs and sperm.

The neighbors, who laughed 

in their garage til after two last night,

full of beer and barbecued chicken,

finally put the five-year olds to bed.

Deflated the jumpy house this morning,

bagged the cans and bottles strewn

across the patchy lawn.

Half a torn tortilla feeds

a crew of ants.

The red-eyed men aren't saying much,

and the women haven't been outside

the apartment yet. The kids are watching TV