Moon

Veiled moon, wind chimes,

bridge lights half seen

through the fog.

Unglamorous, unsung,

her gibbous face erased

as she gazes on

El Paso, Paris

or Pakistan

and we try

to remember

if she wanes

or waxes.

I took my mother

for a stroll

down the street

behind the senior

housing where she

now dwells.

I say stroll,

actually I rolled

her wheel chair.

And she pointed

to some blue wildflowers

growing in a vacant lot.

So I picked a small bouquet,

and put them in a jelly glass

of water in her room.

On the window sill

where she could

look at them.

We watched Jeopardy

and a show about

a butterfly that only

lives in five small places

on the coast of Oregon.

They might soon be gone.

And the blue flowers

in the jelly glass

on the window sill

began to droop

within the hour.

Mom was ready

to sleep before

the sun went down

and the veiled moon

peeked through

the gathering

evening clouds.

A Fish Story

The summer of '78

I did a lot of fishing.

For trout in the Sierra.

We lived on 34th

off H in Sacramento

and I had a morning

car route delivering

the Chronicle.

I'd be done before six

and be casting a hook

into a crystal stream

before eight.

The fishing license

comes with a small

booklet of all

the regulations

- the legal seasons,

types of gear,

catch limits, etc.

Certain streams and rivers

were designated as

"catch and release".

I don't recall that there

was any reference

to human beings.

The purpose of the

restriction was to preserve

a healthy population.

It works quite well for trout,

I guess they are more important

than people seeking asylum.

June

The heresies and faith

I mumble under my breath,

the debris that's left

after nightmare's theft,

the horrors and fantasies

siphoned off the screens

of many sizes,

the screams so easily

muted with a thumb

on the touch screen

or remote. What are they

looking at or for?

What need what fear what whimsy

lives at the intersection

of who am I and what for?

Ask the eyes and ears

of satellites looking down at us

from heights somewhat

closer to the ground

than God was ever found.

I heard a beautiful soprano

singing out a window over

the 7-11 on Main. The one

next to the Taco Bell

where the doorway sleepers

look to score the remains

of half eaten burritos

or the last sips of a Coke.

My lighter was expired

and I must always have

my own personal, portable,

source of fire,

so I went inside

to get a new Bic to flick,

the color doesn't matter,

red or green or blue

as the pixels on my phone.

Lit up a classic Camel

as I passed the park

where the alien parrots

whirled from tree to tree

screaming their joys

-or jealousies

on this gray June morning.

Turn of the season

It's ant colony nesting

in the sidewalk cracks

season again.

The toad choruses

have stopped croaking

now that they're done

with procreation

for the year.

The scabby lawn

is turning brown

but the dandelions

are holding on.

I know there's snow

somewhere, lingering

in shadowed passes.

I could toss a handful

like a white grenade,

if I but got up off my ass

and went.

dawn's early light

Before the business day

begins,

history requires,

hosing yesterday's misery

off the sidewalk.

So the smart ones

sleep up the alley

where the cleaners

seldom sweep.

On the flattened

cardboard boxes

the burgers shipped in.

Under blankets

from Goodwill.

Ignored by the pigeons

picking out the scraps

the rats missed,

between the bottles

and last night's syringes,

they stir.

McDonald's doors

will open soon

serving pancakes, eggs

and sausages til noon.

And the well dressed might have

a dollar nineteen's

worth of mercy in the morning

when they share a touch of hunger

for a Sausage Biscuit or McMuffin.

when dreams are not enough

All his dreams

have wings

affixed with wax.

By sunrise,

fear and fever

melt them off.

Nestled in

his bed of nettles,

the itch of wishes

unfulfilled,

takes him to the edge

of madness,

a cliff

ten thousand feet

above the blackness

of the canyon floor

where writhing vermin

wait to eat his soul.

a pretty nice guy

John Doe. I thought I knew him.

Mostly from the genial way

he conducted Town Council hearings.

Enough to nod a greeting

last week when we met

at the grocery store checkout.

Shared a shake of the head

and a wry knowing smile,

exchanging an eye roll

before we both looked away

from the blaring headline

on this week's Enquirer.

His basket was full

of the usual American fare,

frozen pizza, hot dogs and beer.

I said, all stocked for the game?

Yeah, the kids are all coming over,

this'll probably be gone before halftime.

So it was quite a shock last week

when Babs said, did you hear?

John Doe was killed last night.

Right in his driveway

while he was washing his car.

Some guys driving by

saw the campaign sign on his lawn

and I guess they didn't like it too much.

They pulled it up and beat him to death with it.

I said, Seriously?

You got to be kidding.

What was on the sign?

I can't imagine there's anything

so provocative in Edenville

that it gets somebody killed.

Babs said, I know, honey.

It was just a normal campaign sign.

Red, white, and blue, with the slogan:

Bring back the love to Edenville

Vote Daeshonda Love

for District Attorney.