The Day the Looking Glass Shattered

I discover I can no longer live

With the woman who shares my bed.

-----

Lost in an oxycontin fog,

I find myself

cruising Allen Pond

in a rented paddleboat.

A line of ducks glides by

submerged in a slick olive coat of Vaseline oil.

I close my eyes and attune

to the billowing swell of dark water

The men drinking beer

in the picnic area

pretend to shoot rifles

with their long arms extended

and their skinny trigger fingers.

The lead duck flips

beneath the pond’s surface

like a pinged target

at the county fair shooting gallery.

-----

I wake up alone

spitting out feathers.

Tracking the Watchtowers

They always seem to happen

in threes,

on sunny Saturday mornings

knocking three times

at homes with the drapes drawn,

yearning for those to emerge

from their private prisons

to look upon faces

illuminated from the light

of a burning bush.

Superman

Material by Hanes,

insignia designed with Crayola

crayons, a big red “S” stenciled

in 100% cotton T;

And draped across bony shoulders,

a plush red cape styled by Cannon--

wash only in warm water

with like colors;

World was the back yard hillside

up up and away, expecting to fly.

Lois lived next door

kept taking her panties off

in the sand box behind the tall oak.

Kryptonite was always there waiting

at the bottom of the hill--

invisible

even to these

x-ray eyes.

Apache Trail (Arizona SR 88)

Trails of smoke streak the cobalt sky,

hang like wreathes

over Superstition Mountain.

Arizona sun buckles unpaved pathways.

Scattered bones of lost souls

offer white line hi-way markings.

Twisted rock formations

and colonies of cacti tower

above multi-colored wildflowers.

RVs & SUVs cling to hairpin

turns & winding switchbacks,

brakes screeching like dry chalk

against a classroom blackboard.

Black vultures huddle

over anonymous roadkill;

pick at the skeletal remains,

dodging slow motion steel bullets

shimmering in the Arizona sun.

A Day in the Life (November 22, 1963)

A typical Friday for the fourth-grade,

just turned nine, just returning

from a recess of marbles and tag

when one of my classmate’s mother,

hooked on valium and “As the World Turns”

delivered the news to our classroom

that Walter Cronkite had just delivered

to the world—

“President Kennedy is dead”

And for a moment the world

seemed to freeze on its axis

and on the faces of my classmates,

white and puffy as cauliflower

with shocked red weeping eyes.

That’s when the Principal bolted in

helter skelter and ordered the familiar

fallout drill--cowering beneath

rickety wooden desks

as if that would shield us,

as if Russian-made nuclear-tipped

ballistic missiles were no more lethal

than water balloons or the paper wads

from rubber band sling shots

we loved to launch against each other,

the insanity of which

mirrored by the actions of a lone

gunman crouched from the 3^rd floor window

of the Texas School Book Depository

or the shadowy figures lurking

under cover of gun smoke clouds

permanently grazing 

the grassy knoll.

Home Invasion

A strange virus

has engulfed the apartment,

lesions in the walls

                                   

echo the refrain

of things missing

from the shelf;

Shards of patio window

splinter the pain still

gnawing at fresh sutures

in my head

phantom noises

whisper like thieves

across old hardwood,

voice muted cries of linoleum

soaked in Lysol;

the way  food spoils,

doesn’t smell like home

anymore.

Needing whiskey to sleep,

forefinger curled

around a cold steel trigger;

startled by the slightest

sounds, wind nudging

the dead bolt doors;

greet each morning,

face bruised against porcelain;

spitting out blood.

Just Before They Closed the Capitol Beltway

Through a glass darkly

the flaming wings of a Harley

motoring oval pavement,

precariously weaving between lanes;

sleeveless shirt of an Angel

billowing in the wind

like a parachute, yet even that

will not cushion the descent

when the unforgiving

fabric of asphalt

unfurls to greet

the inevitable fall.

The Final Season

Patches of crabgrass

cover the base path

like a young man’s scraggly beard

or a twelve-year old’s first signs

of manhood.

The paint on the dugouts and bleacher seats

has long peeled away

exposing gray weathered wood;

chain link backstop coated orange with rust

trellises interlacing ivy; the outfield covered

in a pungent bouquet of wild onions.

Baseball was my first love—

followed the 1962 New York Yankees

all summer long

with my GE 6-transistor radio;

persevered from room to room

in search of steady reception;

ear pressed to the 3-inch speaker

to discern Mel Allen

from the roller coaster surges of static.

Summer of ’67--

metallic odor of neatsfoot oil breaking in

my brand new Mickey Mantle autographed

Rawlings deep pocket leather glove.

My exaggerated sidearm motion

scared them off the plate,

garnered a perfect game

on opening day, striking out fifteen.

My father had left after the fourth inning,

“felt like rain,” he said,

but it was the compelling lure of Budweiser,

rivaled by none

that pulled him away;

couldn’t wait to give him the good news.

“Well you don’t have to brag about it!”

quelled all notions

of the father/son moment

that existed only in my dreams.

I was awarded the team MVP

at the end of the year;

my accomplishments inscribed

on the game ball from that occasion;

a fitting conclusion

to commemorate

my final season…

There will be no game today.

but I don’t mind.

Smells like rain anyway.

An August Day at Allen Pond Park

Toured the paved walkway

surrounding the pond

three times

before these 56 year-old legs

began to cramp, betrayed

by a sedentary lifestyle.

Across the water,

a small boy kicks

the shocked, squawking geese.

His father stands in the shadows,

mute & unmoved, a Kurt Waldheim

Nazi statue of complicity.

Turning 55

The man in the mirror

materializes in grainy light;

an image in which

I am all too familiar.

I see the pear shaped torso

swelling from a once

sculptured framework;

the worn fabric of face,

puffy popcorn cheeks

husking cold, steel eyes;

the furrowed rows engraving

a sullen forehead;

the trademark receding hairline

thinning a barely discernible

salty gray image.

It is my father

looking back at me

from the other side.

After the Rain

(Baltimore, Maryland)

November scrubs the Chesapeake sky

cold and gray as cobblestone alleys,

pigeons roosting in the eaves of rooftops,

mourning doves aloft in granite mist.

.

Charcoal smoke clouds drape the harbor

in familiar vagueness.

Seagulls shriek

unseen in the eggshell light.

Day dissolves quickly

this time of year

gray fades to black

across the coarse fabric of sky.

Cusp of moon

leans over Fells Point,

headlights shimmering

in puddles

of brick pavers.

Big Pockets

Explosion in the Gulf, eleven lives

disintegrate from Deepwater Horizon.

Headlines across America burst into orange

and black mushroom flames.

Fish carcasses and tar balls beach

along the coastlines of five states,

arrive before half-naked tourists converge

to stake claims with lounge chairs and umbrellas.

Billions of dollars spent

for clean-up and oil recovery

Thousands of wildlife lay waste,

designated collateral damage in the oil slick abyss.

Volunteers scrub the survivors

with Dawn detergent.

Meanwhile, one-armed bandits

conduct business as usual,

spinning record breaking profits

from bullet proof glass booths.

Shadow Boxing

Shaken from a troubled sleep

by the bearded man

in white robes, I

awoke to a cold spring

rain tapping code

against the storm glass window,

my head filled with spiders,

face blanched

as the rush from a porcelain drain.

I cannot escape

the grip and

scope of this disease.

It sweeps through my cells

like a black kite,

comes and goes

with the rise & fall

of heartbeats, the curled

steam of fresh coffee, fog

of my breath

in the frosted glass.

A man with my skin

Is watching, stark &

unyielding

as a raven’s stare.

He sips from a

crystal flask held

firm as a pistol,

triggers another swallow

spinning like a bullet

in the echo chamber.

Turning toward the kitchen,

breakfast brewing and wet

towels jab at the rust

of sleep as

in the periphery

rain cuts eyelets

in the blue mist

where in the courtyard

a small dog is yelping

to the whirr

of someone’s sleep alarm,

his tree-chained body

twitching like a pulse

or a sleeping eye,

shadow boxing

in the wet grass.

Hometown Blues

Main street warehouses

crumbling brick & cinder

block structures,

peeling plaster

and boarded-up windows

abandoned and ignored.

High School vanished

with consolidation years ago;

the memories disintegrated

into grainy particles of smoke;

keep yearbooks

on my bookshelf

for proof of the past.

Weathering into tombstone,

the swimming pool was drained

when the economy tanked

in ‘08

yet whenever I am here

for too long a period

of time

I am overcome

by the inevitable sensation

of drowning.

Apocalypse TV

Sinister apparitions on horseback

vaporize into particles

of atomic snow.

Barely discernible,

the shriek of human suffering

marquees in closed captions.

On the count of three,

the ones who know too much

swallow their tiny green cyanide capsules.