In the almost musty basement, with the TV playing,
Sharon and I were on the sofa making out.
Urgent kisses, clothes a-jumble, smooth bare skin.
And Walter Cronkite broke in:
"President Kennedy has been shot….”
Shocked, we turned away and watched the world convulse.

We drifted apart,
each to ourselves, changed.

But in the autumn of my life, sometimes at night,
I still think of  
that blustery autumn day in Ioway.

Outside, near the entrance,
a tendril wafts into my nose—
A pleasant olfactory response,
as the molecules are absorbed,
and work into the capillaries,
Traveling through the veins,
Into the heart twice and then the arteries to the brain,
Binding to and activating the nicotinic receptors—
Causing a release of dopamine—
Yes, a runner’s high!
And never mind the downsides,
Even after a 30-year quit.

And yet, I'm glad I quit.

All of a sudden, 
No light, no sound, 
no sensations at all.
My mind was freed--
it soared, 
I could think of anything,
and I did.
No sensory distractions,
no outside prompts to guide my thought
                  ?
At first, I thought I was alone,
but I wasn't. 
I was one among hundreds, 
thousands or more.
To the left of me, the right
front, back,
above and below,
silent comrades, 
on a shelf,
each like me.
                  ?
How did I know this?
I don't know, 
but it was true...
as true as anything else.
I was just a brain in a jar,
with the sensory plug pulled.
I just hope the nutrient
continues to flow.

After our loving,
drifting and dreaming;
the dog barks for supper,
and so it goes...life.

A two-headed coin on edge
heads or heads --
it matters, it matters not

Balance, a dynamic to and fro,
it's a thing to itself--
a delightful tension-- or not

Driving down a backroad in desolate Apulia,
a black cloud of birds formed behind a hill--
It became two then one again in dynamic flight,
resolving into specks and finally,
graceful darts of life.
In the air: Swerving, splitting, rejoining.
Aware of each and all,
a synchronous response to a secret call.

A wave in motion, a flowing organism,
never repeating but ever the same.
We stopped and looked with wonder--
How do they do that? And why?

A lightning bolt: Is it a protest? Pesticides?

What would we do when
topsoil blows,
oceans rise,
food is scarce,
and wells run dry?
Probably nothing as organized- or beautiful.

I woke up underground.
It was eons since my last meal.
My tiny brains were flooded with hunger pangs
I was not your green comic book T-Rex,
I was scarlet vermillion and brilliant oche
and I was confined in the dank earth.
I flexed my armored reptile muscles
and pushed and dug upwards.
I broke ground and saw a feeble sun,
but I was in the middle of a picnic!
Wilted chicken salad and greasy brats,
and some pale mammals,
with crunchy arms and legs.
I left the chicken salad for the flies.

When I first heard Elvis, I shivered.

Blue, blue, blue suede shoes, heartbreak hotel, you hound dog, you!

But when the Beatles came along, I left you behind.

Later when you came to Huntsville, you were fat, and then you went back to Memphis and killed yourself--- **** you!

I'm just a miserable bunch of quantum field excitations. A bag of bags of quarks. And so's my truck.

I was entangled with a gal, but things went South. We're still ensnared— unmeasured and immeasurable with no divorce.

Dark energy, dark matter, dark thoughts-- I'll go to the dark side and jump in a black hole.

That'll teach you,  bit....   [loss of signal]

Focussed,
painting fast but deliberately.
Then,
Time slows and I watch myself apply paint to the canvas--
distant, but connected, on autopilot.
Conscious decisions, many per minute... cease—
but the painting progresses,
and then it’s done.
Not a regular thing, a rare event—
Twice only, unforgettable.

Entering, marble and shiny surfaces everywhere.
37 minutes waiting on the outside of the iconostasis,
Waiting for the acolyte to lead me into the sanctuary.
She calls my name
Presides over the ritual weighing of the meat,
Leads me to a vacant cell.
Blood pressure measured and blood taken.
Thank you, sister, for not hurting me.

Alone again, imprisoned.
Observing the posters on the cell wall:
There are images of all the doctors and deacons.
Twenty percent have ears that stick out.
Can't tell about the women.
The priestess arrives, listens, decides and prescribes
12.5 minutes to her, an hour and fifteen to me.
My offering, a tenth of the non-insured offering, is collected,
Then I'm done for 3 months.

Just a glimmering of an idea--
No flesh, no bones, just a mirage in the distance--
But also commitment.
And so it begins, the beginning begins.

I now know:
Beginnings have hope, and the tingle of the unknown.
Anticipation of something new, the frisson of the future.
The chance for change, an opportunity for action.
Building and creating something with my imprint.

Endings have consequences of compromise.

Beginnings are better than endings.

Afterwards, Judy was shunned,
by all, but a few friends.
Dishing with them, she talked
about her former employer.

"It's just so **** unfair,
I got the result they wanted:
Holophernes is not a threat any more,
but no, they said I was too violent.
I was perfect for the job,
I had always liked the bad boys.
We had some wine and cheese,
saving dessert for last.
But he was a really ****** lover,
And then he went to sleep!
Well, what's a girl to do?

I smote him,
in his pumping heart,
on his thick, muscular arms,
his meaty thighs,
his sinuous neck,
everywhere.
And before you knew it,
his head fell off.
There was blood everywhere,
on me, on the tent, on the ground
and even on the ceiling.
A good thing I had no clothes on
and protected my hair.

The State of Israel should be proud of me.
But no, they say I liked it a bit too much.
And then to make matters worse,
they said I mistreated my maid
when I made her carry the head back.
Well, I couldn't have blood on my fresh clothes
Especially for my triumphant entry to the city.
I mean, after all, what are slaves for?

So here I am, a near outcast,
just because I saved their *****--
They can kiss mine.
That's the last time I'll take anyone out for them."
And then with ****** in her eye,
the Widow Judith stalked from the room.

Blackbird:
       In a field, pecking corn;
       At a pond, drinking;
       At dawn, stretching;
       At sunset, disappearing;
       Chasing dinner, a bug.

Blackbird:
       In flight, bringing the storm;
       Circling my house, waiting;
       Over sea, with the wind;
       Spiraling up, diving down;
       Quoting Poe, nevermore, nevermore;
       At the window, knocking;
       Bringing omens of trouble.

Message delivered:
Blackbird in a tree, observing me.

Black holes are really cool.
The bigger the cooler.
And they are not really black.
Absorbing real quick, emitting real slow,
By George, that's the way to go.

The Indian gentleman, Brahmagupta,
invented the zero, null, nil, and zip--
just for times like this:
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.

Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
You are naught to me.

The Indian gentleman, Brahmagupta,
invented the zero, null, nil, and zip--
just for times like now:
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.

Zero, null, nil, and zip--
Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.
You are nothing to me.

Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
Brahmagupta’s wonderful cipher lets me precisely say:
You are naught to me--
And not just for now, but forever.

Artists and models,
pimps and prostitutes,
writers and muses,
the noted and the nameless,
in stark black and white.

Under the street lamp,
A stout woman with a dangling cigarette,
her shadow trailing into the dark.
I need a warm place to stay tonight.

On the banks of the Seine,
The lamplighter, making his rounds,
creates the mystery of night

Stairs leading down the hill,
into the fog, into the night.
Gas lamps lighting the way,
for someone who is yet to come.

Lovers in a brightly lit cafe,
sharing a drink and a kiss,
a stolen moment,
oblivious to all else.

Rain and the street glistens
adorned by umbrella blossoms.
Long shadows cast by a rainy city garden.

Matisse and his models.
The Four Arts Ball,
Henry Miller, Picasso,
The Follies-Bergere,

The master himself,
eye to camera,
cigarette dangling,
snap-brim in place,
calf length overcoat on a Parisian street,
recording life as it passes by
A time machine, a graphic history,
all is there for us.

The Paris of our dreams.

Buddy, was a dachshund,
an older dog.
Rescued in a Walmart parking lot,
existing on God knows what,
sick, hungry and afraid.
His foster mom called him "Verloren"'
which means lost, in German.
But we called him Buddy,
because he was.
He was with us just a few years,
that was all.

****

When I woke in the morning.
Buddy lay unresponsive,
with shallow breath.
The night before he couldn't walk.
I think it's time, old friend.

At the vet,
I held him and gave the directions
in a wavering voice.
I left as soon as I could.

A dark cloud settled over our house.
That night we slept fitfully,
but the next night,
I was in an indeterminate space,
with furniture scattered about.

Buddy was under a highboy,
sleeping peacefully as he usually did.
I looked again but he wasn't there.
A moment later, I saw him again
and then he was gone.

Some will say my dream,
was just  me processing.
Or was it a sign,
a message from Buddy:
I'm OK.
It's OK.

The bongo drums of his thought carrom across the cosmos,
revenanting across the dawn with nodules of coltan from beyond.
A clear channel for reading the universe:
"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
"Thank you for making this day necessary."
"It's déjà vu all over again."
"You can observe a lot by watching."
“Ninety percent of the game is half mental.”
“Pair up in threes.”

The smell of a quantum of disconnect,
the taste of the magenta of non-sequitur,
the  sight of logic colliding with chaos,
the touch of an insightful short-circuit,
the music of senseless syntax that says it all.

Coinciluckily, the saving grace: "I really didn't say everything I said."
"Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."
Who else would say, “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
Que sera, sera - "It ain't over till it's over."

i've been circling the drain,
and then i'll be done
people will say condolences
because that’s what’s said
but I won’t give a rat’s ***

Wigglely array of commas
Puppy pile

You have my condolences.
There, I’ve said it again.
A placeholder for real emotion,
The empty container.
A mumble in a moving line

And a sudden death?
There is sorrow there, and grief
I could relate to that, but could I sound sincere?

I wonder how often sorrow is really felt
A long, lingering difficult death.
Relief that it’s over,
long illness transforming a loved one into a hollowed husk.
Joyous death, a happy ending

Thoughts of dreads came and went.
I fell asleep to dream.

No, not the infinite intestinal maze
with red, slimy, pulsating walls
forcing me ever-forward.

It was worse.

I was in my own bed with a big snake.
I was tangled in the covers and I couldn’t get away.

Flick, flick, serpent kisses to my face.
Slither, slither, as coils envelop.
I knew it was a dream but I couldn’t wake up.

And then I did.

Soufflé,
Prana,
Respiro,
Aliento,
Breath.
 
Hello,
It’s all just air

One day my dreams were just dreams
No need to plan, to scheme, to save
My dreams change into...what?
The path never taken, the life never led?
But on the balance, some good...
I don't see it.
I just don't see it.

Groovy. 
******. 
Like wow, man.
Ya know.

Yah, you do know--
We could get by for days,
with just these words. 
Cool.

i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.

I yearn for simpler decisions,
The common sense kind,
that offend no one,
and may even gain approval

Hanging the toilet paper roll,
evil sister-in-law peeve.
Yes, the toilet seat thing.
A sock warming a room corner.
Not ******* on screwtops 
The toothpaste top, classic.
Every flat surface a shelf,
every car trunk a closet

So many decisions--
Who has time for all those?
Not me 
and don't you dare think I do all those things!

grotesque, banal,
sorrow and suffering
meted out to all,
but unfairly spread.
the litany of evil,
endless and pointless.
it's the four horsemen,
joyfully at work.
oh god,
how can you permit this?
a wiser man* than i,
in the stead of god replies,
it's just part of the deal.

Dropping her cloak, **** she leaned into the storm and glistened.

The rocket shot to its apex, and filled the twilight sky with white and orange glowing fragments

The car skidded to a noisy halt, the sides fell away to reveal 8 clowns smoking cigars

N-I-P-P-L-E-S. ******* was his name. *******, Joe *******.

A cherry ‘67 Ford Mustang, sumbitch, be still my heart.

After eons, the T-Rex pushed his head through the earth and thought, “Oh good, a picnic”.

Confronting his mortality, next time around he wanted to be one of those **** tomato eating gray squirrels.

The obits I've read, 
are one sided.
He or she was always 
dedicated to their family...survived by....in lieu of flowers....
And that was it.

I'd like tell you about a friend, 
and say, among other things, 
what else Jack's obituary should have said.

We got along, off and on, for many years.

His most outstanding characteristic was,  
he was a sponge for facts and ideas--
science, politics, cultural trends
That was his thing.

Many a lunch hour we and others ate,
solving world problems. 
On a good day, we could smother conservatives with facts,
and outshout them too.
Jack leaned liberal, but carefully reasoned his positions,
which meant that I mostly agreed with him.

He was thin-skinned and a poor turn of words,
he would silently seethe.
That was the frenemy part.
Afterwards we avoided each other,
until after some time, 
once or twice as long as a year or so, 
we spoke again, 
almost like nothing happened.

Jack read a lot, mostly nonfiction 
Lots of science, with some Asimov in his past

He was dedicated to his profession and stayed current.
Customers trusted him and he served them well.
He only worked at one place, 
mostly because he liked the job
and some of the people.

But if a project didn't appeal to him,
he could also be Mr Passive-Aggressive,

He followed the arts and drew,
building a rig for two point perspective,
his doodles were marvelous.

Jack's character was as complex as his  interests.
He described his diversity with "I'm just a dabbler."
Humble, yet proud. sincere but a little perverse.
But not really a dabbler-- he dug deep, a lot.

His passing was sudden and his obituary had gaps.

It's thin, it's yellow, it's HB or #2
It's a pencil with a worn eraser.
I've used it and its brothers and sisters, all my life.

Crayons were OK, but not for my airplanes,
careening across the sky,
bravely engaging Axis aircraft.
Rat-tat-tat.

In 4th or 5th grade, fountain pens were used for English and penmanship, of course.
***** things, splat-splat.
But math was always pencils.
Double digit multiplication, long division with lots of erasings.

When it wasn't peashooter or marbles or some other season,
it was hangman in the back of the room.

In 8th grade, I wrote a 10-minute play.
Subject forgotten, but it was in pencil,
pressed hard for carbons for the other actors.

In high school, another use:
Pushing my frog around with the point,
and getting formaldehyde on it.
So I sharpened it.

I moved on to doodling in class,
during the dull parts
when I wasn't looking out the window.
(Schools weren't like prisons then).

Scribbled math became scribbled algebra,
I started shading that led to watercolor, which I hated,
No precision compared my pencil.

College boards, multiple choice, filling in the circles,
special high conductivity, ultra black pencils.

In graduate school, class notes and coding forms.
School doodling becames work doodling.
Though, I confess, I sometimes used a pen.

Late in life, my  goal was to draw "real good".
Still pencils, but graphite too.
My new favorite is 9B for deep contrast.
That "real good" thing-- I'm working on it.

So put on my gravestone, for all to view
"He wrote as he drew, with a #2".

temperature pales compared to heat
it signals without sensation
but sweat is the real deal

The human spirit, the human spirit
How can I, or anyone, comprehend it.
But actions concretely take the measure
Presenting headlines for your pleasure

I spent months interviewing people about their *** lives
I was worried about empty-nest syndrome – so I began rescuing injured hedgehogs.
How to eat a really messy sandwich
The Family Tree Stops Here, Darling
Pretzels were invented by Catholic monks
An interview with a vampire
A pioneering artist once planted two acres of wheat in New York City as an act of rebellion.
Titian masterpiece once found at London bus stop
The world’s largest 3D printer is building cozy homes from woo
How do you make beans and jerusalem artichokes less gassy?
World’s longest road and rail tunnel is being built under the Baltic Sea
‘It’s not beautiful, but you can still eat it’: climate crisis leads to more wonky vegetables in Netherlands
How to go plastic-free for a day at the beach
Could robot weedkillers replace the need for pesticides?
I retired from teaching – and became a blacksmith
Is moving like an animal the secret to good health?
Wine-poached eggs, lemony sole and puffed potatoes.
A clowning class changed my life
It’s never too late to keep bees, build a sailboat or become an artist
Stamp celebrating French culture: a scratch and smell stamp
Feline scientist says your cat may actually like you.

Everyday pursuits somehow seem a bit sterile from this perspective

I'll eat heathy and lose weight.
I'll shop for a livable diet,
Low carbs, nil sugar, no fat.
I will do better this year.
I'll draw more, paint more, eat more.
I'll surely do better now that I'm older and wiser.
No more German chocolate cake, fruit tarts,
Strawberries Romanov, pastrami on German rye,
Boullibaise, Fried Chicken, Schweinsbraten,
Ice Cream with Chocolate Sauce, Fat Burgers.
Marshmallows, Tater-tots, Twinkies, Pies
I shall do bet... Aw ***** it--
Prime rib and mashed potatoes tonight
And pancakes for breakfast!

It's on the February calendar,
quite near National Bacon Day.
I understand Pay It Forward,
but I don't understand why
I should inconvenience myself.
There are whole industries for that.
I could name them all,
but what a drag,
so Inconvenience Yourself Day,
Hell NO!

French civil engineer and physicist whose research in optics led to the almost unanimous acceptance of the wave theory of light.  (Wikipedia)
Other accomplishments include explaining the polarization of light , its diffraction and numerous innovations in lens design. My candidate for Mr. Optics

While Isaac Newton's theories held sway,
Streams of particles were held as light.
Thomas Young showed they were waves, like water
but the English and French still believed Newton

"Streams of particles are light" they said
Augustin-Jean said "no, light oscillates".
The English and French didn't believe him either.
The French Academy held a competition on light.

Augustin-Jean said "but light undulates".
Ampere said enter the race, tell us why it's a wave
Fresnel entered the competition for the Grand Prix
It was Fresnel versus the French corpusculars

Simeon Poisson, a judge of the race, told the committee,
"Fresnel says waves will have a spot of light in the shadow"
The committee did the experiment-- Fresnel was right
Augustin-Jean Fresnel's spot convinced the world.

Isaac Newton's optics held sway no more,
And light was a wave for a hundred years,
until we found out it was both wave and particle,
but mostly a wave

I like Sy, but my wife does not--
She doesn't like rodents or that they eat our tomatoes.
They’re just rats with bushy tails
But Sy and his brethren exhibit traits
we wish our children had,
They plan for the future, 
hiding nuts, seldom found by dogs.
As a species they succeed, 
they survive and proliferate,
cleverly raiding bird feeders and gardens,
avoiding traps and out-smarting squirrel guards.
Live in a tree, scamper across roofs.
If only, they were better crossing the street.
But I, when confronting my mortality,
I think, next time around,
I want to be Silvester the tomato-eating gray squirrel

She was twenty on the night she came to our street.
And where she was, there are flowers by the curb.

She was twenty and from abroad, but living in Ardmore and sad.
Her friends, who were not really her friends, left her on our street: drugged and dead.

But every year, her mother brings plastic flowers to that spot on our block,
And what could have been, is remembered.

negative space shaping the conversation--
dancing, flitting from safe to safer,
like stepping stones across an angry creek,
we just try to get by.

I've become a lazy reader,
dismissive and curmudgeony too.
Magazines or books? Not magazines--
Magazine readers are a different species.

So books it is. Let me take inventory:
Nonfiction. Sorry, just the occasional science book.

General fiction lost the war for my attention--
Do real people really have so many feelings?
So often and so detailed?

So I read genre fiction.
But bang, bang adventure has become tiresome--
after all how many times and ways can you shoot/stab/blow up/car chase?

Likewise, there are books that seem spend pages and pages describing clothes.
Even though Chaucer also spent many words describing clothes,
his best lines were about bare ***** hanging out a window.

All my favorite characters are now old, Harry Bosch, George Smiley.
To my regret, the Wall falling and the Cold War ending almost wiped out the thoughtful spy story.
Science fiction, a previous favorite, took a goofy turn awhile ago, and I’m done with it.
Let's see: fantasy now seems written for teenage vampire-witch wannabes. Just flutter away.

What's left? I think it's only Detective stories and Poetry.
I'm pulling for Harry Bosch and Billy Collins at 90, and, God bless him, John Le Carre.

Where every thing is black and white
in technicolor;

Where no matter how absurd,
things turn out well;

A cruel place,
but not systematically so;

Where one thing is sure:
when the coyote treads air--
pedaling as fast as he can,
gravity prevails.

Beep, beep.

I don’t want to live in a universe where cats are considered liquids— They’re bad enough as they are.

So some idiot decided that cats fit the definition of a liquid—
“a substance that flows freely but is of constant volume”.

Obviously the dictionary is wrong, wrong, WRONG.
I shall spend the rest of my dotage developing a definition that will not accept cats as liquids.

Perhaps “A freely flowing substance of constant volume that doesn’t meow.”— Perhaps not.

But wait,  cats don’t fit the definition after all. They don’t stay the same size, especially when frightened or wet.

I bet that idiot spends all his time watching cat videos and has never hosed down fighting cats in his backyard.

Dotage saved for more important stuff :
Continue study of Schrodinger’s aversion to cats, look for hidden messages in Emily Dickenson poems recited backwards, master fake outrage.

There will be no litany of dreads,
No enumeration of my deepest fears.
No dark dwellings of my darker nature.
My secret fears will remain secret and deep.
Nothing more is needed,
Reality is tough enough.