Not all questions have answers I must suppose.
And some of the most important are those.
Or perhaps they have answers we don’t dare contemplate.
So we smile and ignore them until it’s too late.
But that’s the dilemma of this little verse:
Will there be any answers in the back of the Hearse.

A swift and certain line -
moment and movement.
A glimpse of life
unburdened by the weight
of physical form.

Tell me how you are feeling,
Or tell me to go.
Say its none of my business
Or I don’t need to know.

Tell me what’s going on,
Or tell me **** out.
Say it or text it.
Whisper or shout

But silence is hurtful -
Though it may seem absurd -
Every unwritten sentence
And each unspoken word.

I know that I look different,
But here’s the paradox you see-
Maybe I don’t seem like me to you,
But I seem more like me to me.

Would you love me
If I weren’t smart?
Of course I would dear,
With all of my heart.

Would you love me
If I had three eyes?
Of course I would dear
No matter their size.

Would you love me
If I were bigger or taller?
Or rounder, lopsided
Or a thousand times smaller?
Would you love me
If I were transgender or gay?

Child, I will always love you –
That is all I can say.


“Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds”
W. Shakespeare

Long forgotten in poems and prose
Are the tribulations of a person’s toes.
Perhaps the likes of the great Ulysses
Are all afraid that they will sound like sissies -
If, in a battle full of strife and woe
They should take a moment to say “ouch, my toe!”
(though no one thought twice to hear Achilles squeal,
“I can’t go on - I broke a heel”
So go on and whine if you stub your toe -
be like: “this little piggie went to battle - Yo!”

We are universes unborn-
you and I -
dimensions yet to be formed -
hidden here in plain sight.
Time and Space have no more consequence
Than the opinions of those
who believe they set the boundaries,
and make the rules.
If you listen
you can almost hear angels laughing.

goodnight

When it happens, it happens quickly -
a small crack will appear
and the ossified personification
of one of your most revered gods will crumble.

And that is when the true magic will begin.
When you realize that what spills forth
is not all miracles,
beauty and wisdom -
Much of it is ugly, disappointing, even petty -

and all too human.

Bit by bit, your past
will try to distract you from the present,
so it can steal your future.

This is how we become ghosts
in our own lives.

I realize at last
That I can not be God.
I feel the pain of others too deeply,
Which would inevitably lead me
To end pain and suffering -
Probably even discomfort.
I would, no doubt, answer the prayers
Of people in need and trouble.
I would try to make life fair.

I have come to the painful realization
That such actions would in turn
Blunt the tools we use to sculpt our souls
Into strong, beautiful and unique pieces of a universe
I can not begin to comprehend.

Therefore, in light of this weakness,
I must respectfully withdraw
My application for the position .
I will seek a different position elsewhere,
For which I am better suited -
A friend, perhaps, a parent or teacher

Someone who cares a lot,
But controls very little.

We exist
As a reflection of the creative force
That drives the universe.
It imbues our cells,
Our molecules,
Our spirits.

As children, we did not hesitate
To pretend,
To imagine,
To make up songs and stories,
To paint and draw,
To dance and sing -

Another joyful voice in the choir of the universe.

So tell me why
Do you hesitate now?
Why do you hide behind self made limitations and fears -
Excuses that become the walls of your cage,
Your prison cell -
Your tomb.

Why do you say
that you are not one of THEM -
The gifted, the talented, the artistic -
(As if we were not all made from the same stardust)
Repeating it over and over like a mantra-
that could absolve you of your responsibilities,
Your role,
Your unique harmony in the song of creation.
Oh, what arrogance!
What hubris!

Now that you have accepted the seeds
Of my work
(My sentences, words, marks or noises)
Into the womb of your soul
My (our) artwork can be born

I will not be present for the birth
Nor will I ever truly know
What we have brought into the world
what it means to you
But I hope you will love
And nurture it
And that it nurtures you in return

New gods are rising
Up from the mud
At the place where streams of blood
Fed by the violence of ignorance and greed
Flow together at last
Into the great river

New gods are rising
Beautiful and strong
From the sacrifices of the oppressed
The marginalized, ignored, the mocked and reviled
New faces, new races
The mud of the river

New gods are rising
Free of the chains
And fetters of antique gender expectations
Not willing to be defined or bound by anatomy
Only spirit and dreams
Down by the river

Old white gods in dotage
Behind their great walls
Are blinded by their own reflections
In the highly polished arrogance of power and wealth
Unaware of the river
And the mud and the blood

And the battle ahead

With every breath
Every touch
Every thoughtfeelingdream
Joysorrow pain and healing
The map of our soul multiplies -
An infinite fractal reflection
Of the universal design

And we move further away
From simple answers

Tonight the moon,
Voluptuously full and swollen
Moved close to me
And whispered -
(The way new lovers often do in the early hours
When they are sure the other is still sleeping,
Or too groggy to understand )

And truly I did not understand -
But I smiled and nodded
And continued our walk.

Now as I try to reconstruct the moment
I can’t help thinking
That beneath the sweet, gentle lightness
of the night breeze
There were overtones of something much darker.
Shadows mixed with dreams
Mixed with dreams
Mixed with moonbeams.

A man sitting on the beach
thought he was making the whole thing up:
the water, the moon,
all the people he had ever known
the earth, time, himself
but he was wrong.
It was me.
I made him up.

A child’s mind and spirit need a chance
To confront the boredom of unstructured time -
To build, explore, to write, pretend or dance;
To dream and plan for futures more sublime.

But we, with anxious guardian concern
So fearful that our wards might come to pain,
Replace their fires with ones that do not burn
Colored lights that anesthetize the brain.

Our children grow and sadly we bemoan
How ill prepared they are to lead us on.
(You harvest wheat if wheat is what was sown
The chance to harvest other crops is gone.)

So let the entertainment sit ignored,
And see what comes of children being bored.

Split the words open.
Cut them in pieces.
Let the guts spill
and the blood spurt out.
Get it on your hands
And face;
Get that wild glint in your eyes –
The one that makes people nervous;
Bellow to the heavens as you stitch old ideas back together,
Laughing hysterically
“It’s alive!”

You ate them?
You ate the ******* plums
that were in the fridge?
God, you're a selfish *******.

Look,
Just pick a path, will ya?
Flip a coin if you have to
But move along -
Other people are waiting.

We exist
As a reflection of the creative force
That drives the universe.
It imbues our cells,
Our molecules,
Our spirits.

As children, we did not hesitate
To pretend,
To imagine,
To make up songs and stories,
To paint and draw,
To dance and sing -

Another joyful voice in the choir of the universe.

So tell me why
Do you hesitate now?
Why do you hide behind self made limitations and fears -
Excuses that become the walls of your cage,
Your prison cell -
Your tomb.

Why do you say
that you are not one of THEM -
The gifted, the talented, the artistic -
(As if we were not all made from the same stardust)
Repeating it over and over like a mantra-
that could absolve you of your responsibilities,
Your role,
Your unique harmony in the song of creation.
Oh, what arrogance!
What hubris!

A line in the sand -
a border -
a fence -
my 40th birthday;
my 50th birthday;
my 60th birthday -
the ball drops at midnight!
A new year -
blow horns, beat drums,
kiss somebody, make resolutions.

but everything on that side
looks exactly
like everything on this side.

and somewhere
rivers are carving canyons
and small plants
are shattering boulders

Thoughts, ideas and words
Have always been corporeal objects in my life -
Things, with weight and volume.
If you could see them, stacked precariously one atop another
Pile after pile and stack after stack,
threatening to bury me alive, when the balance is destroyed someday
when I try to remove the wrong item at the wrong time -
Well, If you saw them like that -
The way I see them –
You would, no doubt call me a hoarder,
A hoarder of ideas, thoughts and words,
Living safely in my own little world  
Surrounded by the waste products
Of an over active mind,
Unwilling to part with even the most useless thought -
Secure that someday they will all fit together into in a grand poem
That will free me at last.

The walls of my sleep have been deteriorating,
crumbling

So full of holes,
that my dreams have escaped their dark cages
to prowl the world in the greenblue day.

Outside my windshield
Morpheus transforms the landscape -

sculpting traffic, trees and sky
Into mythic tableaus
of seductive beauty - hypnotic grace.

and then I am also transformed -

Into a bullet

For an eternal moment
I become a speeding messenger of death,

until the alarm of the traffic
breaks the spell
and the dreams scurry away,

to hide once more
from the waking world

and wait.

Being disorganized and somewhat distracted
I seem to have misplaced the map that the universe provided at my birth.
You know the one:
it shows your perfect path through this lifetime-
so you can be at exactly the right place at exactly the right time
and use the talents and intelligences that the universe let you borrow
to achieve great and wonderful things.

It would be so nice to know that I was on the right path,
instead of guessing and hoping and straining to hear the angels
that I imagine are hoarse and frustrated from screaming:
Not that way!! The other way!!
or
Where the hell are you going?

I wonder does she know
that they live with us -
all my other selves -
over on the stairway is the me that went totally insane
five years ago during the great stress
while I had to keep it together for my family.
He is looking quite relaxed today.
On the sofa is the me that quit his job
to write poetry and become involved in the theater.
( I am surprised he is here - he should be in New York)
Over there is the me that told everyone to *******
and leave me alone.
On the second floor, looking out the bedroom window,
is the me that actually went to find
my birth father and tell him he was a **** for leaving my mother and me.
He is chatting with the me that sent his manuscript out to more than three agents before giving up.
The me that has worked out diligently for the last 30 years, playing football and basketball and soccer is over - no I’m making him up. He doesn’t exist.
They crowd every inch of every room
and more than a few hang from the ceiling
and now all her other selves are moving in as well.

I suppose that’s married life for you.

Jack, they say, one autumn day did fool the devil well;
And then and there, did make him swear, to keep Jack out of hell.
But when he died, he was denied his entrance into glory;
And so he roams our streets at night and therein lies the story.
To see at night, he has a light that comes from hells own flame-
Which burns so well in a turnip shell –and jack-o-lantern is its name.

October days are thin, you said,
like a shirt worn through at the elbow
so that your skin shows.

Then you smiled, and your stomach so full and swollen moved beneath your sweater.
We can’t move out of the city before the twins are born. I know that,
So I spend a weekend peeling wallpaper off the walls
of the back room.

It is slow work most of the time, though occasionally
a large section rips off quickly, revealing the bare white
wall underneath. I run my hands over the newly revealed surface

looking for bits of paper that I might have missed;
small bits, almost invisible.
In a few weeks it will be Halloween and children I do not know

will crowd around my door in cheap costumes
and cheaper masks - many will have none at all-
Naked faces emerging from the shadows.

Step one: I write something down.
Step two: I erase it.
Step three: I start over again.
Step four: I misplace it.
Step five: I search and I search.
Step six: I give up and play.
Lists are so good at using up time,
in an orderly organized way.

There is a thing that I have to do,
that I really, really don't want to.
So I sit and think of reasons why
it can't be done; I shouldn't try.
So I don't– but then I think of how
If only I'd done it, then right here and right now,
the thing that I don't want to do would be done
and my list of to–dos would be shorter by one.
But I didn't, so it's still a thing I have to do,
that I really really don't want to.

(I was wondering: does this ever happen to you?)

This morning one of my ninth grade students
Is showing off her sonogram
With the same excitement and enthusiasm
I used to see in my daughter when she was showing off a new Barbie doll
With it’s glittering gown and open toed plastic heels.

I tilt the image this way and that -
Hypnotized by the light
That dances on and off of the black glossy surface
Just the way it did when I was a kid
Shaking the magic eight ball
Waiting for a glimpse of the answers
That I knew were going to emerge from the shadows.

So peaceful and calm
before the lights are turned on
then students arrive.

Class is almost done
student raises hand and yells
"What are we doing?"

Students focused, calm
intent on learning, thinking
someone else's class

Bell rings, students leave
room in disarray - teacher
exhausted, drained

correcting, grading
while family watches movie
while eating, sleeping

Words are fun to play about with -
to rhyme sometimes, or simply shout with.
Textured words with rich deep color
that vivify those words much duller;
phrases culled from a private stash
to give your expletives panache.
Cause shock and awe - gain admiration,
with erudite vituperation!
So let your language soar unfettered
away from tired words four lettered.

“Artists create art”, ah, yes they do.
But art creates artists is equally true-
And many a man from his comfort is torn
The moment an artwork decides to be born.

A muse is not a fairy godmother
Or a genie in a lamp
A muse is a disagreeable *****
Who shows up whenever she pleases
And offers mostly excuses
For ideas left undeveloped.
Sometimes she offers up nothing but recycled cliches
freshly polished and smelling of chocolate chip cookies.

Don’t come around when the muse and I are wrestling –
It is definitely not a pretty sight.
But when we’re done -
Both of us lying exhausted on the floor -
That’s when she’ll say something really meaningful-
Or at least it always seems meaningful
At the time.