Signs and whispers

What does the willow twig

so precisely laid across

the corner trash bin have to say?

What voices do

the green corn husks

and the corn silk,

the desiccated

chicken thigh bone,

lying on the sidewalk

picked over by the ants, have?

On the lamp post,

a washed out grayish xerox,

protected beneath a yard or two

of clear packing tape, displays

a smirking sun-glassed face

hiding behind bold block letters:

-DEVIL'S ADVOCATE-

The barking discord

on the screens upstairs

finds it's way down to the street.

What deal was the suit guy striding past

the construction pit yesterday,

speaking loudly into his phone

about some launches, cooking up?

Surely not about North Korea,

but in these days

of strange opportunities,

who knows?

There is a man in Cairo

who collects ephemera,

as trivial as toothbrushes and ticket stubs,

lighters and old shopping bags,

stores them in multiple apartments.

He says, everything is wonderful,

he finds meaning in every battered toy.

I spied a perfectly sliced

half moon this morning,

straight up overhead.

It looked like a dime slipping

into a slot in blue infinity

waiting for God's hand

to pull the lever

and spin the wheels,

to come up all jackpot cherries.

But the odds are more likely

to come up bell-seven-lemon.

Happy

She sits cross-legged

outside the nameless park each afternoon

scratching the crust of dirt on her bare thighs.

She hums and sighs,

avoids the eyes

of all the passersby

who study their phones

or the crossing signal

or check the sky,

deaf to her mewling

kittenish cries and mumbling

and walk on by.

She wears a blanket brown as sable,

brown as her Congo skin

draped close around her shoulders.

She has leaves in her hair

and secret smiles, some thought

or memory that seems to please her.

She never holds out a palm or cup

but I decided to give her a dollar

and she looked up and gave me

a smile, said in the sweetest

child voice, "happy".

The next day I did the same

and again she said, "happy".

Somedays she is elsewhere,

but now I make sure to have

some dollars in my pocket

for when she is, sitting quietly,

talking softly to her self,

touching the fallen leaves stuck in her hair,

lost in memory or revery as she suns there,

outside the nameless park. and all she ever says is,

"happy"

The plan

Zack had it all worked out.

Down to the last Euro.

A modest townhouse

on a sunny coast,

with bougainvillea

fountaining up the walls

and the scent of herbs

drifting through

the open windows

on balmy nights.

A Vespa with a basket

that he'd ride down to the beach

or to the market where he'd inspect

with a practiced eye,

the fresh caught mackerel

or aubergines,

nudge some loaves

still warm from the oven.

Perhaps a cappuccino

and a malasada lightly dusted

with golden grains of sugar

to sweeten the morning while

he spent an hour or two

perusing sports and politics

on the latest iteration

high resolution iPad.

Undoubtably he'd meet

some sweet raven haired

potter or masseuse.

And they would share

the same taste in cinema,

much laughter, and

a lively time in bed.

She would teach him

the local lingua

and ride behind him

on the Vespa and

it wouldn't matter

that her raven hair

streaming out behind them

in the ocean breeze was dyed.

He could see it all so clearly.

Things didn't work out that way.

He bought a condo in San Ysidro

with a rosemary bush outside

his window, but at least he

got the Vespa and met

a woman with black dyed hair.

Stella wasn't a potter, she sold

plates and glasses at Pottery Barn

and she knew all the best places

on his body to knead and rub.

It was a short trip to Tijuana

on the weekends for cappuccinos

and pasteles at a favorite cafe

where they could talk about

the latest movies, laugh or groan

about the news. If they were feeling frisky,

they could spend the afternoon

playing in a by the hour hotel bed.

On Sunday evening, as the sun

sank in the Pacific,

they climbed back on the scooter,

split the lanes at the border

and were back home

at Seaview condos before dark. 

Eden

There was tv show called Eden

conceived with the popular formula

of the reality survivor trope.

Plop a couple dozen citizens

into a wild Scottish peninsula

insulate them from the modern world,

record their interactions,

see how they would cope,

a human petri dish

under a hi-def microscope.

Some Eves and Adams,

a fisherman and a nurse,

perhaps they'd find out

if their Abel would be able

to escape Cain's curse.

All went well enough it seems

in midsummer's mild clime,

four episodes were seen.

Then something happened

some of the intrepid participants

began to disappear, the core

was whittled to a few

and it was rumored that

some were smuggling liquor

into their isolated and hoped for

pristine midst, uncorrupted nor

distracted by the kingdom's

brewing discontent.

The camera's kept recording,

but no segments made the air,

the remaining adventurers

continued the experiment.

perhaps in ignorance,

but I wonder if

along with the contraband,

the smugglers also trafficked

in the news and decided

they would rather tolerate

the midges and mosquitos,

the jealousies and slights

within their manufactured tribe

than the world outside

accessible with a click.

Vets

the street vets tend

to share a certain

silhouette.

whiskery as a terrier

black watch caps

camo patterned coats.

clothes and kit

stuffed in bags 

that sit neatly

in a row against the fence

around the newest high rise

erupting south of market.

some never speak a word

and others never stop

and i've never heard

from any of my old pals

with whom i shared many

a bowl of afghan black,

if they ever made it back

to galveston or ok city.

except for jim who

stayed in and climbed

from pfc to colonel.

last year i got a message

from his wife that his heart

had given out in tel aviv

so we'll not be sitting

beside the donau river

sipping our old favorite brew,

the one named for the sun.

things

I believe that

something clings

to some…things:

Stonehenge, bodhi trees

the wailing wall, the Kaaba

Chickamauga, Wounded Knee.

Some live behind ropes or under glass

Lincoln's top hat, Jefferson's bible,

pieces of the Berlin wall,

-sometimes even the mundane.

I was standing on my usual corner

enjoying my usual ten o'clock smoke

and I heard a quiet voice

behind me softly muttering

a string of urgent messages

about conspiracies on BART

and invocations to some Cynthia

in phrases whose meaning

was only known to the ragged

woman with a missing right

maxillary lateral incisor.

She was dressed in many layers

and a super hero themed bandana

wrapped around her head..

In the middle of her opaque

and pauseless stream

she clearly said,

May i trade you a lighter

for a cigarette? and held

out two in her dirt smeared hand.

I declined her proffered swap

and gave her a cigarette.

She lit it up and placed the lighter

on top of the corner trash bin

and silently suggested with a nod

and downward flick of her eyes

that I should take it, so I did.

It was a standard plastic Bic

with an image of a dark eyed

zombie woman and the name

of a popular television show,

-The Walking Dead.

everything comes in threes

three stolen bicycle rims

stashed up in the crotch

of a tree on Battery Street.

three headless

child mannequins

dressed in cheery pastel

spring collection outfits

in the display window

of the Gap.

three small sweat-sheened
bodies lined up side by side

on a plastic sheet with

contracted pinhead pupils,

diameter: three millimeters.

as if life had become too bright.