NO TIP TONIGHT

Seven P.M. Thursday,
Italian Bistro, three ladies
and too much Chianti.
They act like old tigress's
who've found a zebra foal
and can't decide between
mothering it or eating it.
From the back of the cab one says
to me will I give a free ride if she flashes me,
lifts her blouse
in all her shrunken drooping glory.
I'm sorry, Ma'am, that won't even cover the tip.
She laughs so hard her teeth fall out.
As she leaves the cab, her claws
drag softly across the back of my neck.

Happy new year. Champagne, party flavors, kisses with plenty o' tongue.
Be happy, healthy, have fun.

The season

Armand, another eggnog here, heavy on the rum.
For the ones who are alone tonight,I will remember you.
To those put away, put down, put up, I remember.
Those of you on the road, far from home, I will remember.
Those with family scattered far and wide, I remember.
You in the shelters, the wards, the cells, I remember you, too.
Those at sea, in the air, in harms way, I remember.
To those lost in their own inner wilderness's I will remember.
You who are pursued by old familiar demons, I remember.
And to you, whoever you are, who are right where you want to be,
remember all of us.

Armand, a round for the house on me.

...and the music of the stars
still stream though the lit night
a Capella, like a kid on a corner
snapping, popping, sizzling
from a secret but free energy,
a bone and blood pulsar,
a righteous Borealis

and I ain't too old to miss
magic when it happens.
The clouds clear out,
the moon is a bright grin.
I know babies dance when they're born.
I know molecules dance, and atoms,
and mountains in slow stone time dance.

Life is bright, time is forever.
Dance like our bodies are gods.

Something escaped from the closet today.

Snapshot: picture Mel Brooks,
Yoda, and Ebenezer Scrooge
rolled into one old man.
One time a man took me from the street
and gave me home, gave me warm, gave me light.
But a souvenir from ’Nam
ate his family, his little boy, a little girl
their loving mother.
Today at the V.A. I saw this gnarled troll
waiting for his medications
eyes all predatory, same Portuguese nose,
old stale menace his mouth.
Some things are best left buried,
better left put away, out of sight
and out of mind, locked in a cage.

Friday night and the wine is almost gone.
Sound of buses on the street below my window,
people going somewhere, returning from somewhere,
staring at their faces reflected in the dirty bus window,
making lists, forming speeches, framing apologies.
All the things that make us human;
communication, regret, envy,
are the things that keep us apart.
I send my thoughts out and ask
for nothing but acknowledgement,
an admission of inclusion,
a need to know I belong.
But I am a poet.
What was I thinking.
The voices of the night are mine.
I stare into the eye of the moon
and read omens there.
The darkness is mine,
has always been…
I gave up the light for understanding.

poem from work

THE BOY WHO DOESN’T KNOW


Kid gets in my cab,
headphones on,
thousand-yard stare,
saliva-coated chin.
Four people walk him
to the cab door and leave.
My eye never leaves the mirror.
He sits and rocks a little,
hums softly.
I think he is his own universe.
There are strange stars
in his sky.
He revolves around himself
silent and stately.
I am nothing here.
Maybe a small moon
casting inconsequential light.