What if

If not for the smash of my knee

into the sliding glass door,

the patch of grit

on the country curve,

the overheard

conversation,

the desert windstorm

encrusting me in dust.

the birthday kiss,

the missed - assignation.

the secret mission

unexpectedly revealed.

the stillborn novel

reborn in stanzas,

the stolen camera,

the broken fence.

the little boy who said,

i didn't know that it was loaded.

the wallet lost

on a foreign train,

the rainy swerve

into the guard rail.

if the comet hadn't

smacked the Yucatan,

we might all

be clad in scales.

The quality of mercy is a nearly inexhaustible subject

Antonio Narbona was born

in Mobile, Alabama in 1773

when it was still part of

Spanish Louisiana.

There must be something

about some places that persists,

that gets into the blood.

In 1805, Lieutenant Narbona

led a troop of Spanish soldiers

up the north fork of Canyon de Chelly,

where they killed a hundred and fifteen

Navajo men, women, and children.

Took the thirty-three they spared

back to Chihuahua to serve as slaves.

At a big new grocery store

near the Canyon, in Chinle,

a leather-skinned man points

to his cap on which the word

Army has been stitched by a machine.

Says he's a vet, asks for money.

I say, me too and give him

half a sawbuck and half

a hoagie sandwich.

Two nights ago, after I got home,

the raccoons ate three newborn kittens.

Left their eviscerated bodies

on the driveway

next to the compost bins.

They spared one -or missed it.

Maybe they were satisfied

with just the three.

Bookworm

I've been keyless and phoneless

even penniless more often than

I've lacked a book

in a pocket or a pack.

That was the tease

from my Portuguese uncle

who fancied himself a wit.

Not enough to make me quit

reading about mastodons

and saber toothed cats

trapped in the La Brea tar pits

or searching for dinosaur eggs

with Roy Chapman Andrews

in the sands of the Gobi Desert.

Saving seventy five cents for something

by that old racist, Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Tarzan was always rescuing the fair damsel

from some leering savage just before

he was about to ravage her pale virginity.

Hoping that for once he'd be too late.

But he never was.

Childhood's naivete gave way,

darker fantasy held sway

and I found myself enmeshed

in a military reality

grimmer than the pages

of any dystopian book.

I drenched my mind in the philosophies

of Schopenhauer and Nietzche, Mills and Locke. 

I had plenty of time and crystal meth.

I always kept a book tucked

inside the logbook of my Jeep.

Which led to the amusing incident

when a visiting General discovered

that I was reading that little red one

that millions waved over their heads

in Tiananmen Square.

He asked me where I got it.

I said -at the Stars and Stripes bookstore

back at the battalion headquarters.

My other job, when I wasn't driving

the Battery Commander, and visiting Generals,

was separating edible from inedible garbage.

Thank you Mr Beckett for your novels.

They led me to find some satisfaction

making impromptu compositions

with leftover mess hall mashed potatoes,

lima beans, and jello salad.

Dark trashy mysteries and mayhem

are still hard for me to resist

especially when flying on a long trip.

I want something as easy to digest

as the packet of pretzels they give you.

I save the good ones for the destination.

Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response (ASMR)

Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday,

at two forty seven

in the afternoon.

Stanley shuffles the deck again

-for the forty or fifty or sixtieth

something time.

Deals the cards into four neat piles

gathers them  back into a single stack

without looking at them

and shuffles them again.

Stacy says, do it again please,

I'm almost there. I'm almost  -there.

Stanley isn't there yet either,

his hands are automatic,

he's staring out the window

where the kid from down the street

he's hired, is raking maple leaves

into piles on the lawn.

The riffle of the cards synched

with the rhythmic scratch of the rake.

The prickly pleasure that Stacy seeks

arrives, and as it shoots down

from the back her head,

along her spine and leaves

a tingle just above her ass,

she arches her back

in a delicious shudder.

Good? he asks.  Yes! she says

but would you please

now brush my hair?

Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday,

barely midway through

the afternoon and five o'clock

feels as distant as next year.

Stanley says, I'll brush your hair

but then it's my turn, okay?

I want you to carve some soap.

Palmolive or maybe Dove

Irish Spring doesn't fit the season.

Stanley goes out to the garage

and inspects a row of boxes

on institutional metal shelves.

Flips the flaps on a large one, sniffs,

and takes out four bars of Dove.

Peers inside the box and frowns, getting low.

Back in the living room

he slouches on the couch,

hands a bar to Stacy.

She unwraps it with a flourish

because he loves the sound

of the waxy packaging coming off.

Which would you prefer today,

the potato peeler or the box cutter?

The peeler. Maybe start with the peeler

and finish with the box cutter?

By the way, we're down to less

than half a box of Dove.

Better get over to Costco and restock.

Get some Palmolive and Ivory while

we're at it. Stacy smiles at him and murmurs

Sure, honey. We don't want to run out.

Want to smell the first one

before I start to carve?

She begins to shave long slivers

of pale soap which falls into the apron

she has spread across her lap.

Stanley watches her slender fingers

push the peeler through the bar,

the soft sound of it's resistance

and the pause at the end of each

gentle stroke tickles his eager ear

and the first shiver stirs on his scalp.

That's exquisite, dear, you carve so well.

He lets his head roll back against

the cushions and waits for Stacy

to unwrap the next bar of soap.

Ready for the box cutter, Stan

or shall I keep going with the peeler?

Keep going, love, there's nothing

sweeter than the way you work a potato peeler

on a freshly opened bar of Dove.

Those carvers on YouTube

are butchers compared to you.

No one has the magic touch you do.

Past or future

Later, sheltering in a shallow alcove,

a man not dressed for the rain,

mimes asking for a smoke.

I had two left, so I gave him one.

He asks me if I've ever experienced

vibrations of the past and future.

Demonstrates with an

outstretched trembling hand.

Points to the crook of his elbow

as if injecting something.

Says the vibrations of past and future

go away with Dilaudid when you dream.

Then you wake up and discover

that you've written yourself a letter.

We share a chuckle about that.

He wiggles his fingers at the sky.

the in between

Two guys hustle across

thirty feet of bricks at Market.

One says to his tall friend

it's all meat, you know?

He's wrong of course,

the vast in between is empty.

Wind or dust

Is it nobler to be compared

to wind than dust?

Like the herb-scented

breeze of Provence

or the stuff that fornicates

and duplicates like bunnies

under the four poster bed?

The galactic dust from which

the universe was born?

or the cosmic wind

on whose breath

it was borne.

And when it came to rest,

God moistened it with tears,

of joy or sorrow, I don't know,

to form the primordial muck

from which microbes, amoebas,

and coelacanths coalesced

before Adam ate the apple

and we codified a thousand rules

about whom and how to fuck.

To be the powder blush

that pinks the cheek

of the happy bride,

or the wind that lifts the kite

of the laughing ten-year old

running, unafraid or targeted

across the schoolyard field?

Am I the black wind

that rolled across

the Texas Panhandle

and pushed my grandpa

to the promise of California

where the night air carries

the perfume of lemons,

oranges, and raisins, alfalfa?

After the dust that trailed the tractor

all afternoon settled on the cattle

and the his old Buick

where the cats sleep, and on

his white board and batten house.

He rinsed his hands and face

free of that cloud and sat under

the front yard walnut tree

savoring the evening breeze

with a tall glass of sweet iced tea.