Vespers

What were you chanting  
from down the dry well
of our German coffee maker?  

A brusque Gute Nacht masking
the finesse required to defeat
the hinged plastic lid?

Begging bus fare
for the Silk Road
transparent,

even without mornings
bracing first cup.
A caution, then?  

Don’t leave bags unattended?
Know the warning signs of stroke?
Sleep like a baby, use two-step

authentication?
Your cloistered solitude,
fringed bulb of abdomen

whispered tonsure,
solitary choirmaster dwarfed
by cathedral walls

soaring graduated
into heavenly gloom
where I hovered on high,

my nightly routine
to summon The Flood,
deigning to lower

a spoon of salvation
while you wove a gossamer
chorale,  

working
the eight tiny shuttles
of your batons.

One Night, Late Summer

The Harvest Moon presides
but won’t presume a pledge
despite imploring wood smoke
in spite of homing embers
rising to swarm a Janus face
waxing luminous as a loupe of cream
a weather eye on waning yet to come
willing to look the other way
while I haul on this lasso
your upturned eyes
enameled in buttery gleam.

Free Range

Insurrection or some dereliction
a latch left dangling or machinations
long in the works, The Salt Lick Plot

perhaps, freed you from *******
tyranny of the **** cup, cold
hand of Big Ag, you were left

ambling wild eyed and stricken
by the world’s delights and horrors
delivered wholesale at a stroke.  

Watching you in the rearview
engulfed in my dust, enameled eyes
white as roadside diner crockery

I had a moment of envy green
as new mown hay that evaporated  
with the mighty pull of the barn

headlong return to your contented
ways, well-worn confines for me
the path back a song I know by heart.

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.

Algoma Guardian

She’s bound for Toledo riding
low with grain, slipping through
fine blue capillary that splits
the difference between Belle Isle and Windsor
Canada keeping a low profile
to the south forever
confounding us.  

N   A   I   D   R   A   U   G      A   M   O   G   L   A

emerge one by one from behind
a clump of trees in the middle
distance, tidy Canadian houses
gobbled like so many pills
hull bleeding rust
I stand witness
to silent progress
her steady down bound passage.

Sleep Arrived

She arrived early last night
for the ten o’clock shift
frock on the hook, bag on chair
moist kiss of no-nonsense shoes
I like to mimic from behind
the rim of my glass while you stifle
a snicker until it falls in step
with the papery cadence of her starch
whites and muttered imprecations.  
It never ceases to amaze, the ease
with which she heaves us
over her pillowed shoulders, knees
cushioned on those ample *******
arms dangling limp to the rolling
sway of her kneading haunches
stealing a good night kiss
behind her dray horse back
as she bundles us drowsy up to bed.

Red

Open Jeep
That raptured us to the bottom of
Cherokee Hill

Aunt Shirley’s
face, nails, her flip flops, elastic
band that

barely tamed
her whipping hair, weeping  
bead work

my knee aflame
reopened on blacktop
only minutes

before sirens
split the sun ripe afternoon
Red

Bank
Baptist Church at the apex of a blind
curve

Beetle
helpless on its back, cans of
Bud

scattered
empties, some full ones
church key

perhaps
thrown clear with the passengers
blood

pooling
beneath the pinioned driver
everything

except the snow
white sheet I could not help
but imagine

drawn gently
over my astonished
fevered face.

All Your Secrets

What better time to tell me all your secrets
sitting by this window on the old dowagers
across the street, sure hand of dawn lifting
charcoal night to block in shapes of snow
covered roofs wreathed round by neural
bundles of trees piped with winter plaque,
ampules of porch light casting amber cones,

flare of first rays gilding eaves in gold leaf,
a shared delight to set the mood and loosen
your tongue, elevate the conversation beyond
soft intimations of endless settling, muffled
tick and creak from places deep within
you and me, distinctions blurred over time,
walls that could conceal brittle yellow

broadsheet reporting bi-partisan opposition
to the League of Nations and fears of a second  
outbreak of Spanish influenza, a foundation
balanced lightly on the head of a buffalo
nickel pressed into place by a superstitious
man who needed the money or a time capsule
rolled in oil skin tucked inside a copper box

packed in rock wool caged behind lathe,
curious secrets that sleep on while mine rouse
to internal revelries and emerge glistening
from fold and cleft to form up for the march
to the front, keeping cadence as one voice
faint but unmistakable, a sound you dismiss
as nothing more than wind, as friends will do.

My Answer To A Request By Rosanne Cash To Sit In For A Performance At The Rubin Museum Of Art

I’m flattered of course
but I must confess
I don’t play guitar
or a wind instrument  
the nylon strings of the Silvertone
I practiced on
a cats cradle beneath
my fumbling fingers
the school trumpet
that always left me
kind of blue.  
Let me be up front about
my limited vocal range
pathetic inability to carry
a tune in a bucket amplified
by a fear of public speaking
a crippling shyness going back
to my peripatetic youth.  
But I can see you won’t take
no for an answer, not surprising
you, daughter of the Man In Black
me, a man possessed
of subtle dormant talent
waiting only for a spotlight
stool and tambourine.

Miller Moth

Promises were made
that dress of yours
yellow as a Miller moth
batting about the bulb
of a painted porch light
yearning on hanger
to caress a ***** of shoulder
ride a swell of hip
bell the well-turned ankle.
Pleat and dart pooled about
first one foot
then the other
rose to lip
a halting smile of neckline
assumed an aspect
of sail gathered wind
sung vows in the rigging
where I madly batted  
drawn, ensnared.

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.

Strong Man

Sleep sound, dream sweet dreams
A strong man at the switch
Trouble no more, all peaches and cream
A strong man with an itch

Head for the mall, work on your tan
A strong man has your back
When things go south, he has a plan
A strong man, to tyranny he’ll tack  

Blow it up, the whole things broken
A strong man lights the fuse
The will to fix? You must be joking
A strong man wins, we lose

Feel free to retype and add a verse, or write new verses using the same title and pattern.

Morning Spider

What were you trying to say
from down the dry well
of our German coffee maker?  
A brusque “guten Morgan”,
unworthy of the finesse required
to defeat the hinged plastic lid,
“****** off mate” belying
the English taste for tea,
begging bus fare for the Silk Road
transparent, even without a bracing first cup.
A caution, then?  
Don’t leave bags unattended,
know the warning signs of stroke,
sleep like a baby with two-step
authentication?  
But your solitude, small bare bulb
of abdomen, put me in mind
of a monks tonsure, choirmaster
alone in the apse, dwarfed
by vaulting cathedral walls
soaring seamless into heavenly gloom,
where I hover on high, indifferent
god commanding the flood waters,
bestowing random flies of mercy,
deigning to lower a spoon of salvation
while you weave a gossamer chorale,  
working the tiny shuttles of your batons.

One Night, Late Summer

The Harvest Moon presides
But won’t presume
A promise to itself
Despite imploring wood smoke
In spite of homing embers
Rising to swarm  
A Janus face
Waxing luminous as royal jelly
A weather eye on the waning
Bound to come
Willing for the moment
To look the other way
While I haul on this lasso
Your upturned eyes enameled
With amber gleam.

Spring Set Alight

Dog and man, leashed by habit
Trace and retrace against a backdrop of
Calendar pages ripped free, carried
Away in wind building to crescendo
Soft breeze of youth still playing
Across fresh baked faces when thoughts
Wander off lead, pausing here and there
Rubbing trace memory from reborn grass
Taking in a crew of robins, burning embers
Touching down, setting town alight
One warming to waning desire to give
Chase, the other burning through days
As if spring hung lightly on his shoulders.

Pendleton Shirt

Wool that never wears out  
Plaids welcome in any circle
Pockets shingled with ***** and tails
That stay tucked no matter what
Yours smelling of lanoline
Mixed with gasoline
Sweat broken unloading
Imperials in Wheeling
Dried salt scrim by Akron
Heroic buttons
Holding back the minor
Planet of your belly
Satin labels stitched  
Into elliptical orbits of collars
Shirts found
Sagging on hangers
At the end of the day
Exhausted from their work
Concealing the contours
Of a hounding emptiness.

Rock And Roll Memoir

It was too **** loud
I never liked Bobo
our first drummer
            or
was he the third?
The riffs?  Stolen.
Lyrics written
by a callow youth
still torment me
to this day like a
                                            s
                                     w
                                                a
                               r
                                                     m
                                      of
                          b
                                        e
                                                    e
                                    s
My obituary
a bit of boilerplate
written by interns
at Rolling Stone
lays waiting
patiently
for the call.

I don’t remember
      in any particular
   order
the origin
                                             of the band name
                     the outcomes  
                                                   of
                                                             the lawsuits

                                            what happened
           in Houston


penning “Love Carburetor”
                                                                             on the bare
***

                                   of a groupie named Skyyy

                      

           writing
                    a song cycle

                                           about the Laps                      
riding  
  
                                 in ambulances
           limos


helicopters

or

                                                                                     punching
Bill Graham

on the sidewalk
                                                               in front of

                                                  the Fillmore                                
                                                                                                    


                                                                                                    East.

If you say
we played Farm Aid
twice, well
I guess you would know.

I can’t ****
standing up
or hear a word
you’re saying
and my doctor says
we must get
a handle on my liver
before we think
about replacing my
knees
hips
corneas
heart and lungs.

But I’m booked
to a ten night stand
at the Beacon
with the New York Philharmonic
performing our first album
in its entirety
with our original bassist Ian
somebody or other
plus interviews
on Fresh Air and Morning Joe
to promote a concert
film by Jim Jarmusch.

Guilt

Northbound on the left hand shoulder
Even the most armored pads no match
For the glittering carpet of shattered glass
Pile shot through with steel shard, sharp
Bite of burrowing wire, incongruous
As the blue cow I placed above a yellow
Felt board moon as a child, unsummoned
Memory that galls my brand new passenger
Dour as his spear is sharp, running me through
While I watch the reflection of the dog
Vanish behind the spooling concrete wall

Gratitude

So proud you never killed
anyone driving drunk as a lord
in my car on school nights
late on weekends after tossing
your filthy apron and clocking
out ripe and sloppy on wedding
screwdrivers gulped on the sly
engulfed in great gouts of steam
issued forth from the big Hobart
a purification ritual that rendered
you invisible until I could melt
away into the sober night
make good my escape yet again.

Library

You lacked grandeur, no city hall portal,
with the footprint of a chapter book face up
on the lawn, spine a rule for tomes of cars

shameless with chrome.  A nameless perfume
bathed us in the foyer, a lure to place our heads
in your open oven, greedy for another gassing.  

Landscape of sturdy oak plain and canyon
buttered in light from a flotilla of hovering
saucers, the wind swept butte topped with glare

ice where my finger skated titles and my dog-
eared card toward a woman with cats eye glasses
lashed lightly on thrilling swell by the thinnest whip

of lanyard, yellow Ticonderoga number
two at the ready in the perfect quiver
of her platinum French twist, pert pink bud

eraser bobbing up and down with every
delicate toggle of the fat rubber
date stamp, so mesmerizing to a dewy reader

brought to his toes, straining for a whiff
of subtext, your memory a mist rising from this book
cracked wide, lolling fragrant in my lap.

Drawing 101

I wonder if I hung
onto that self-portrait from
my first college art class

peering into a mirror
contour line in pencil
student grade sketch bond.  

Dave Barr
would have to be what
in his seventies by now?

my first acquaintance
with a practicing artist
one with a studio and ideas

that woke him up early.
The twist I recall was
to render one’s face

forty years on
warts and all
as they say.  

As if by magic
I’ve arrived suddenly
at my destination

one I predicted  
using only line to map
sagging jowls, face etched and a nose

grown to epic proportion.  
At least that’s how
I remember it

a masterpiece of draftsmanship
that captured the soul
of its subject, a man rendered

in short hand, gaze
bewildered when I was going
for bemused detachment.

Cake Lover

Icing peaks a pillowed top,
shingles this creamy carousel
layers press and oozing
awaiting my trailing finger.

I blow out your candles,
licking each one clean
to the wick, rising wishes
mingled with smoke.

Setting Spring Alight**

Dog and man, leashed by habit,
retrace all the old routes against
a backdrop of calendar pages
ripped clean, carried off by thieving
wind graduated from soft breezes  
once played across fresh baked faces,
recalled when thoughts wander off lead.  
They pause here and there to rub
trace memory from galley proofs of grass,
take in sooty crews of robins, incendiaries
touching down, setting town alight.
One warms to waning desire
to give chase, the other burns
through days as if spring still hung
lightly on his shoulders.

Rocks

I threw them for no reason
Other than Old Harrisburg Road
Ran thick with crushed limestone
Inexhaustible at a languid pace
But finite as my patience with the pious
When I threw them fast and furious
At the window lights of the old school house
Or poor cousin Reesy
Out of plain spite
Rage cupped
In the palm of my hand
Fired sidearm with topspin
Until my arm ached
All those sharp edged consonants
Nuggets of vowels
From ancient pages of seabed
I threw them for no reason
Other than mindless thrill
Heedless of the crunch of words
Beneath the wheels of the morning milk truck.

The Best Part of This Ride

is not the yellow lights
veering like starlings or
the smear of midway neon
neither is it the sweet
billow of deep fried
elephant ears or the lewd
bend of the corn dog
in the hand of the operator

centrifugal force
pinning us in a blue skylark
pulling you tight to me
your upturned cheek
is the best part
waving at strangers stuck
at the top of the Ferris wheel
every time we come around.

Learning to Ride

Now and again
on warm spring mornings
low on the drop bars
cadence clipped clean

fluid transfer of force
orbiting the sweet spot
flesh, bone, alloy mesh

senses trawl a teeming sea
I still feel your hand
on the back of my seat

ragged breath your
big feet slapping
pavement as you release me
to the current, anchored

hands on knees while I recede
downstream pedaling
furiously beyond your reach.

Sixth and Alexander

A temporal fold
at the northeast corner
I never bother

to map, a cleft, benign
despite the dogs  
lingering skittishness,

we slip inside
to drain off all
but the moment

shed this load
our house a yellow beacon
through a veil.

A Good Set of Bicycle Lights

Strap white to the handle bar
red to the seat post

of your worrisome bicycle
                         a fixed gear nightmare, these nighttime

streets lay in wait while I lay waiting to be pierced
by the call that never comes
with a bit of luck.

Old light from distant stars
at the edge of my
galaxy of fear

arrives as pinpricks of reminder
your new orbit free
                                of my nettlesome gravity.

Sixth and Alexander

A temporal fold
at the northeast corner
I never bother

to map, a cleft, benign
despite the dogs  
lingering skittishness,

to drain off
all but the moment,
we slip inside

to shed this load
our house a yellow beacon
through a veil.