Eggs

It’s a habit of mine to pause a beat
to dwell on the egg, the essence
of ****, before I crack one ker-whack

on the yawning lip of the cast iron skillet
broken promise of shell a favorite
metaphor of poets, embryonic

and otherwise, pop and sizzle sunrise
of yolk a buttery shorthand for brains
hopelessly scrambled, fated for plating.

East Egg or West Egg?  The courtesy bay
glitters in the moonlight as I huddle
with the rest, slumped in thin tuxedos, eggs

balanced just so on shifting feet, poaching
ourselves advantageous angles, the light
on Daisy’s dock green as Seuss’s vile eggs.

Sunset

Remember North Manitou
years ago? pressed up against
the portside window
on an overnight flight to Dublin,
spilling dye downtown
above the left field bleachers,
finger painting the suburban skies
of my childhood racing
to beat the streetlights,
floating fire on Lake Superior
too many times to count, Malibu
two nights one July,
sashaying drunk on magenta,  
going off to pout in the dark
when I called you a show off.
You’ve seen me at my worst,
I know your all your florid secrets,
little wonder we’ve grown
to resemble one another,
incandescent palettes leached
wicking gunmetal horizons.

Forgotten Printmakers of the 19th Century

Scent of wet leaves
sharp signpost leavings
on every rock and tree
from here to The Women’s Club turnaround
expectation of another stale treat
from the sidewalk bin at Café Muse
sheer ecstasy of your kind on leash
in numbers enough to banish
any thought of Sir Francis Seymour Haden
not to mention Adolphe Marie Timothée Beaufrere
and that unabashed vulgarian Louis Legrand
from the soulful clutter inside your head.
Edgar Chahine and Paul Gavarni
even Achille Deveria
are absent from my own
this autumn afternoon
still swimming with the artless
death of my mother
grateful on this end of the leash
to be led back home
in such agreeable silence.

Felt Board

In Sunday school we strained

     to hear sandals scraping stone
             snap and crackle of kindling

     echo of gospel songs sung
                             in three part harmony

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego

     overlays free floating
                    smiles all around, fronting

    a fiery furnace more
                    beehive than crematorium  

Nebuchadnezzar scowling

     from the soft verge of his velvet palace
                  hush of orange aloe leaves

     licking the plush pink
            feet of an angel hovering over

the muffled din of a passing July morning.

Clay

A shoulder of clay cut with runnels
set to music, round notes, fat plucked

chords sustained in eternal cascade
from the concertina of the spooling Manistee

above Red Bridge, blue blazes worn
smartly by these still, mute sentinels,

their averted gaze twining into
graceful arches that usher us from one

moment to the next, fine capillary
weave stretched over rib of stabbing light

that illuminates slick kaolin veins,
a surgical tent to conceal rending fingers

plunged into the wound, our faces
smeared, the trees thrilling to our howls.

Cava

We’ll order cava in smallish glasses
from the café with wispy tables on
the plaza pocked with sunburnt bullet holes

sprayed from the hips of passionate men
sporting snap brimmed hats dipped low on one side,
veiled arched shooting eyes righteous, unblinking,

dark slots that screened smoke from hand rolled
cigarettes, great-grandfathers perhaps to
our waiter and the fellow seated

at a table for two embroiled in a lilt
pas de deux that seems friendly enough to
a pair of short term expats who don’t speak

the lingo but savor it’s tuneful swing,
the parry and ****** of slender hands, pairs
of small deft birds winging this way and that

until one brace breaks off with a flourish
to nestle beneath a tray of smallish
glasses that lifts and soars, borne off on the

salty breeze while the other two alight
around a beaded glass of cava and
a lazy smoke, time marked in wispy whorls.

**** of Summer

Summer is dressed in her finest, a day spent at the beach
Shoreline stroll in black burkini, a walk out on the reach
But fall arrives with a nightstick to roust out all the crooks
Take it off gals or go back home, give those nuns the hook.

Donald Trump is off his meds, his rocker and the rails
Breitbart soars in media-world, alt-white the color of its sails
Ugly game within a game, give Hillary the ***** prize
Trump aims higher, Orwell-land, where two plus two is five.

Hillary Clinton wants my vote, got it stashed in a pickle jar
They snuck in wearing bandit masks when I was at the bar
Ransacked the place, her gang of thieves, Bill and some Wall Street thugs
She got my vote but I drew the line when she came back for a hug.

Our Revolution, rally true believers, Bernie’s still our man
Hot like a blintz on Clinton’s ***, but for Wasserman, it was in the can
Jeff Weaver at the wheel, twenty-seven dollar donations on the gas
Can’t this thing go faster? Jettison staffers and top it off with cash.