human extraction is when
you pull a person out
of a situation
where they think
they are trapped
and you see them there,
without a clue,
and what else
can you do,
you reach out,
flip some switches,
pull pulleys and shout,
and pretty soon the poor person
previously captive is out,
and you go drink a beer

I do not want
a single wish granted,
  because if it is
   I will not have
    this exquisite longing
     in my heart
      for you.
It supplies me with
foolish and wonderful dreams,
  life-giving and death-defying hope,
   hearty laughter
    and childlike vision,
      the plotting of courses
       to distant, unreachable
        shores.
I do not want you
to say yes to me,
  and replace these things
   with the difficult drama
    of mundane reality,
     familiarity,
      with all her
       boisterous children.
No pessimist, I, no fatalist,
no hopeless, gutless,
  whining quitter, I bound
   up the stairway of hope
    three steps at a time
     the longing in my heart
      for your love
       invigorating
        my soul.
Remain aloof, and inaccessible,
and let me dream
   my impossible dreams.

You looked up
from your poetry reading
and out the window,
and in your mind’s eye
you saw me, standing
at the end of a long pier
where I had just awakened
from a dream about flying,
with a look of wonder
on my face, because I had
never woken up before from
a dream standing up, except
as a small child who had
sleep-walked into his mother’s room.
There was a moon on the lake
and a small rowboat tied to the pier,
and I climbed down into it, and
as I settled into the boat,
the water rippled and
the lower moon began to shimmer.
In a visual way, it was musical
and I hummed along. As I did
the boat began to move with
no apparent means of power,
effortless propulsion just like
the flying in my dream.
All I could do was relax
and see where the boat
was taking me. In the magic
of the moment I stopped humming
and the boat likewise slowed
to a stop. I stood up and dove
over the side, swam under water
for as long as I could hold my breath,
and when I came up, I saw you there
reading, involved with my words
on the page, and I longed to be with you.
You couldn’t see me waving, you only saw
me climb back into the boat, rowing,
parting the water with a soft, diminishing
slap as I disappeared into the distance,
but I rose from the water, flying again,
and come up behind you; you looked away
from the poem, wondering what it all meant
and I put my hands together and pushed
forward with all my will power and
flew into your heart. That is where I am
now, and I intend to stay until you can
break free from your imagined reality
and come into my story with me.

I think you are
my last known
viable human
on this network,
if not this planet;
ordinarity has been
displaced with disparity
and a reaching
for a handhold
in the confusion,
are you here now?
I promise not
to disappear into
my illusionary state
if you promise not
to disclose my location

when Stagger Lee
shot Billy
he had no idea,
he was just ******,
he could’a caught
the ride with Sadie,
headed west,
but no

Knock, knock,
Whose there?
It's me, you ******* idiot,
who did you think it was?

imagine that loneliness
has an executive secretary
who works his/her work schedule,
and loneliness forgets
to give her/him
the proper recognition, and
when he/she forgets everything,
loneliness turns up the isolation

When we long,
we know there is more,
something missing
we need to find,
it is the motivation
to move on,
the essence of dissatisfaction,
the beginning of a journey
toward fulfillment,
it is the recognition
of unrest,
the need to discover
missing mysteries
in life.
Longing feels good,
it feels right;
it is the antidote
to complacency
and smug satisfaction.
When we long,
for others,
for something greater,
we reach past our dilemmas
and difficulties
and defeats,
we begin to climb
to higher ground.
Come, long along.

The temperature has
fallen to ten degrees
and I am looking into the
woodstove now, and seeing
how the densest of wooden
logs eventually succumb
to the fire, and watching
a news report of the LA
fire, and remembering when
I lived there, and flipping
over to the president elect’s
dinner with the governors, and
concluding that even the densest
of people will eventually
succumb to the truth, but
there will be unimaginable
losses (does a period go here
or shall I put a semicolon
just in case?)

Love is always a risk;
once you give it away
you cannot be sure
if it will return.

Some will wear it
as an ornament,
posing, seeing only
how nice they look in it;

Some will reach out
and ****** it skillfully
from the air,
and throw it to the ground,
and laugh at your weakness;

Some will demean it
and call it a farce,
holding you accountable
for every act of transgression
before it;

Some, not knowing what it is,
will toss it, and play with it
until they tire of it
and then leave it behind
like a toy;

But where love is greatly valued,
it will be carried, carefully,
and placed upon an altar
of thanksgiving,
and reverenced;

And the author of love
will receive it,
and return it
in such great abundance,
it will overflow its course
and wash everywhere,
making debris of the
hard-hearted
and foolish.

I hear your cries
from far away, your
needs are not unusual
in any way, you rant
and rave and pretend
to propound, but seriously
is your mind still sound?
No worry. Be happy. An
old prophet sang, for you
and for me, and for all
who need to be found.

I thrash any poor schooner
whose plight I encounter
and toss their bounty to the winds;
me, I sail with the words behind me
as wind, I have worlds to conquer
I’m off to anywhere, Malta?
a Burmese mountain top?
the beleaguered streets of
South Chicago, a brothel
in Yokosuka, the sties of Iowa,
the fertile fields of Mendocino,
meet me there, and we can talk

I want to slip easily
into tomorrow, no
jolting by noisy
garbage trucks, no
disrespectful distribution
of confusion, no snurgling
confusion of words,
as if

One bird told another
and he in turn
another
until
in no time,
word was passed
halfway 'round the world;

and though the bluebird
could not communicate
the exact
meaning
of the language,
so foreign,
still, he sang,
and the sense
of the thing
was imparted;

and though the woman
did not know
she was hearing it
in the bluebird's song,
that secret thing
the man had told
the nightingale
so far away
was imprinted on her heart,
and she felt it
and put her hand
over her breast,
and breathed in
and smiled;

And the man
did not know
what the birds
had done.

oh, man
I am having
a really good time here
all by myself,
making a lot of noise
to make up for
the silence

I have a small
patch of land,
just one acre;
here the world
is at peace,
the robins
and the cardinals
all get along;
the weeds
and the perennials
grow together.
There are no democrats
or republicans
allowed here,
they would
destroy the
ambiance
with their
vitriol. Christian,
Muslim, and Jew alike
may come and
worship here,
and I will make them
tea, and serve them
lunch; it is all right
to have an opinion
and you should vote
for whichever
candidate you want,
but do not bring
your blasphemies
onto my holy land;
the catbird is irritating
but I just drink my wine
and say, “shut up, catbird.”
He (or she) ignores me.
The wood bees are sometimes
aggressive, but I swat
at them, and loudly
assure them that they
would not be if I didn’t
let them bee;
at least, around here.
I have neighbors.
The ones to the west
do not speak
my language,
and the children
to the east
sound like wild animals,
like democrats,
and sometimes
even like republicans,
but we all get along.
I understand
you are afraid
of what might be,
but if you could
only see, that
it will work itself
out just like it
does here in my
yard, with a little
of my help,
but not because
of me.

You can listen
to the news,
you can express
your views,
you can point your toes
when you dance,
but the future, my friend
will unroll like a scroll
and there won’t be
a thing there by chance.

There are things
that you hear,
there are things
that you fear,
there are demons
inhabiting dreams;
but events that unfold,
or so I’ve been told,
are not the results
of man’s schemes.

So retire your talk
and just go for a walk,
look up at the stars overhead,
and be thankful that you
have no claim on the view,
and then, laugh, be happy,
go to bed.

most everyone has
something to say, a
criticism, an observation,
an opinion, but I know
a girl who just runs around
encouraging everyone,
how wonderful is that?

Oh, ****
everything
I said before
is null and void
I have been
found out,
in the category
of preposterous.
the realm of bravado

I asked this question of a one armed man,
“Can you plant a seed and make it grow?”
He said, “I really do not think I can.”

The same I asked of another one armed man,
He said he could but half-heartedly did sow;
He never finished with his plan.

The third bragged heartily but never began;
He talked a lot of all the things he’d put in every row,
But in the end, he ran.

The fourth realized it as a good thing to do, and
When he tried, what do you know?
He succeeded and became a better man.

The time in anyone’s life is not a prohibitive span,
To try out things that challenge you to grow;
Be brave, and try to do all the things you can,
And don’t be discouraged when you have to change the plan.

things seem to be
looking up in dreamland;
my assassins, usually appalling,
must be on vacation, and
there is more flying,
and less falling;
the big green puddle
coming from under
the refrigerator
receded on its own,
and the wild fox
running around
on the living room floor
found his own way out
through an imaginary cat door,
which is why
I didn’t get up
this morning
at the usual time, but
turned over again
and dove back in
for more.

the things that we say
have no matter, they
come out like slobber
or slather, our pro-
pensity to comment
lacks moment and reason,
our ideas are defined
by the temps and the season,
follow me, brothers, to print,
take off your glasses and squint

or maybe I should
just stand on the thing
I want you to see, and
hail you as you walk by

Have you ever heard
a parking lot bird
rejoice in the sun?
No, parking lot birds
don’t have much fun,
constantly busy
looking for scraps
that aren’t really there,
they stare at the
undersides of cars,
they peck at nothing
there’s no food there,
no plants, few bugs,
they ought to be
full of despair,
but a parking lot bird
never complains,
and sings as if
he hasn’t a care.

They fly under cars
looking for crumbs
from hungry bums
who eat their meals
behind steering wheels,
then open the door
and brush their laps
and parking lot birds
grab up the scraps.

Have you ever heard
of a parking lot bird
being struck by a car?
No, by far, they boast
the most incredibly skilled
virtual acrobatics
of low-flying flight,
they flit and alight
and never are killed,
none are hurt,
they all fly free,
when you crank up
your trusty Subaru
they always manage
to get away from you.

A parking lot bird
hasn’t much to hope for,
lost from his woods
and full of woe, he
just has nowhere else to go;
they grew up under
the big marquees
of some of the finest
groceries, and
they just keep singing,
never complaining,
hoping one day
you’ll bring them a scrap,
a morsel, a tidbit
a crumb or two,
leave it on purpose,
it’ll be good of you.

Silence,
  though sometimes golden
  is now awkward;
I came to you
  longing
  to drink
  from your fountain,
but you knew
  you could never fill
  this emptiness that is me,
    and you demurred,
    and sighed,
    and held me
  in your sad eyes,
    and wet my lips
    with a single kiss.

words properly spoken
do not need to be strewn
all over the page
as if it were
a work of art,
let the artists
paint their pictures
while we poets
put our words
one after another,
line upon line,
hoping to be heard

You would not believe
how strong my fingernails
have gotten, I can gouge walls,
tear through flesh,
and flick incredible distances
all while laughing

Life seems to be
an arduous climb
up steep, winding roads,
with harrowing bends,
to the top of a mountain
where you can turn
in a full circle,
and see all around you; or

it is a long sea voyage, all alone,
where you can see that same horizon
all the way around;
the monotony tempered
by the anticipation
of reaching shore
somewhere, maybe to find
something new; or

it is a long walk
in the woods, lost,
all the trees seeming the same,
until you find a clearing
and see a house,
or hear the familiar sound
of traffic on a nearby road; or

it is a journey upriver
battling against the current,
losing headway when you angle
for either shore; frustrated
and out of strength from
the continual rowing; or

it is a tedious drudgery of work
on an assembly line
of routine and boredom,
your paycheck no remediation,
your weekends bland, similar,
a welcome rest, but
holding no promise; or

it is a tiring routine of meals,
the same over and over,
until you end up putting
hot sauce on everything,
and your mouth and your mind
go numb in rebellion
to the lack of creativity; or

it could be a walk through a city
down unfamiliar alleyways,
large buildings blocking
your view, with a fear
inhibiting the anticipation
of finding your way out again,
a foreboding at every corner; or

maybe it’s an accumulation of meaningless things,
a discarding of meaningless things,
an argument over meaningless things,
a long oration from meaningless people
about the meaning of meaningless things; or

it can be a search through a library
of information, roaming
through the stacks, taking
books down, looking
for secret directions,
hidden meaning between the lines; but

sometimes, it is the joy
of a song with others, the
harmony of worship, the
serenity of hope, the
other-worldliness and the tears
of the sadness for yourself and
everyone else caught up in it,
and the faith for what might be; and

sometimes, it is just
the joy of food with others,
sitting together in comfortable chairs,
the chitchat and the laughter,
the regaling of memories
of how you somehow made it,
miraculously, this far;

and then, as if waking
from a dream, you climb from
your bed, dress painfully,
groping for your slippers, and
you stumble through your home, and
lurch to the door, open it and marvel
at something radiant and unexpected,
a prospect of new adventure,
where everything will become
the epitome of all you sought, and
you will become the epitome
of all that you have ever been.

religious conclusions
are often correct
though disdained
by profusions of
the charged intellect;
the reason we’re here
is not so mysterious,
we’re products of a God
who is often less serious
than we hoped he would be;
he may be just curious
like you and me

When I was a boy, a big part of winter was going to the ice-skating rink in Winnetka when everything was frozen. We roller-skated in Glenview and bowled in beautiful downtown Northfield. Weather did not deter us. But when I turned about fourteen, this huge wind came along, and I went out and stood in it, and leaned into it, and after that I was not the same. I forgot all about school and in my heart became a wanderer. I left home one year later, off to see the world. I have had a wonderful relationship with the wind ever since.

I am working up
the courage to
face you all again
ever since I laid
myself bare with
my accounting of
how I thought to
survive; by hording
my words while trying
to stay alive, but
it didn’t work, I
almost choked on them,
and now I feel like
they are just going to
spew out of my mouth again,
and shame me as before

Do I need to escape
to realms of wonder?
I have been impregnated
with the banal existence
of assumed reality
for too long,
and my mind grows
restive

if you would consider me for a place in the human race, without thought, then perhaps I could be bought, but I ain't cheap, I came here by dubious means, swimming canals, finding shores, you can put water that is about three hundred degrees below zero into a woodstove and it will melt and sing you the hillbilly national anthem, but I, river swimmer, am a threat?

in times when joy seems
furthest from your mind,
you guffaw the concept
and refuse to climb,
but your friends remind
you of us, all of us, you,
me, and our friends,
don't get left behind,
we're struggling upward
with no immediate goal,
we need you with us
and you are there

Let me be known as the Sinks Grove sentinel,
I’ll keep a watch from dusk until dawn;
I’ll report on the news even though unsensational,
On the street, up the hill, at the store, on my lawn;

I’ll tell you the things that I hear from the birds,
Report on the rabbits that squeeze through the fence,
Sustain your attention with irrelevant words,
And keep an eye out for Marjorie Pence;

If Ed wins the lottery, I’ll give you a shout,
If the dogs keep barking, I’ll stop up my ears
If you’re worried about thieves that are lurking about
I’ll give you a call and calm all your fears.

Let me be known as the Sinks Grove sentinel,
Sensible and skeptical, lamentable, intentional.

just in case
you have been waiting,
someday never comes,
it’s always now,
it never changes
from that, so stop
saying it, someday
I’m going to do
this or that,
someday never comes

A lone sailor,
wistfully making his way
to the coast of Venezuela
to visit his ailing mother,
his sail in taters
from a vagrant wind,
his small engine
belching smoke
and overheating,
looked up and saw
the sky fall;
space debris
splashed all around him;
he crossed himself
and wondered.

I await, faithful poets
with upturned face
for a little debris
from outer space
to fall and land
in just the right place
about noon this coming Monday;

please pray, faithful poets
along with me
for this unlikely event
because it really could be;
we’d be shocked for sure
but secretly,
our mourning hearts
would be full of glee;

(now sing the chorus along with me)

Space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready,
Oh, space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready.

Vote for me for poet of the year,
I can make you laugh,
I can make you fear,
I can make you giggle
like a schoolgirl again,
I can give absolution,
I can make you sin,
I can make you sing
with my meter and timing,
or upset your balance
with imperfect rhyming,
I’ll need your vote
at the end of the year
so, I thought I’d better
start asking you here,
vote for me for poet of the year.

I spent the first half
of my dream
trying to find
the superglue;
finally, I went
to a store
and they only had
eleven tubes
for six dollars.
I couldn’t do it.
I knew I had six tubes
somewhere at home.
Then the clerk
gave me two tubes
she had in her drawer.
At last! I had my superglue.

I spent the second half
of my dream
trying to figure out
what I needed the
superglue for,
and why the neighbor
was driving his truck
in my yard
and who all those
noisy people were
that prevented me
from hearing
what you were
trying to say.

There is nothing like
a bathroom window
where you can sit comfortably
and watch the snow
piling up on the branches
of the barren trees
in your yard;
I once met the people
who invented thermopane;
thanks, guys! it looks
really cold out there,
I think I’ll bake
some cookies.

We are tiptoeing
on the edge
of the precipice,
our senses tell us
to draw back,
but there is a
certain element
of mystery
and surprise;
can we trust
the people
we are with?
Anyone could just
reach out and
give a gentle shove.
Maybe we can fly.
We've never been here before,
we've never really tried.

I woke up
wondering,
why is the sun
shining in through
a north-facing window?
it was
my big maple tree,
bright yellow
in its dazzling,
autumnal display;

the trip to town
was a glorious drive,
the sky
full of falling leaves,
windows open,
my half-finished poem
flapping
on the seat,
I drove more slowly
dodging wooly bears;

the autumn colors
remind me
of the corduroy shirts
I wore
as a boy,
and the multi-colored
drip candles I made
in my bohemian days;

I’ll do my shopping,
then see if the leaves
have fallen
from the gingko tree
on the college lawn,
then go back home
and think
of all the things
I’ll write
while sitting
at the kitchen table
this winter,
by the woodstove,
when the leaves
are all mulch
in my garden,
the snow is falling,
and evergreens
reign supreme.

The birds that stick around
don’t sing much
in winter, I mean,
what is there to sing
about? They are cold
and probably envy
their migrating friends;
I hang with them,
through the winter,
give them seed and suet,
fatness to keep them warm,
but tonight, the birds
are singing again, and
the robins are back,
so, I guess it is
time to shout;
The birds will sing
and I will shout,
I will let my
happiness out.
let it be a song

for what can compare
with the fanciful
drama of dreamland
where mechanics long for
the rusty old tools
of their past
and swans
larger than life
call to you
with raucous honking
then carry you
to magnificent heights
riding on their
billowing backs
bundled in blankets
of warmth among
the brilliance of stars
and a simple flat tire
results in multiple
tow trucks hauling
each other higher
while troves
of innocent children
explore pristine
mountain towns
in awe of nothing
in search of fun
and happy old ladies
with open purses
provide substance
with pleasure
and the prospect
of gloom
is nowhere
to be seen?

when we scroll
through this and that
looking for hearts
and minds similar
to our own, we are
full of hope, but the
reality is that there
is just too much stuff
out there, so we often
confine our search
to the first five words.

I like the girls
at the pizza place,
even though they're
not very feminine,
arguing with the cooks,
exchanging insults
with the dishwashers.
Still, they're good to me
and understand.
The waitress said,
wiping her hands
on her flowered apron,
I'd take you home with me."
And even though
she didn't really mean it,
still, it was a nice
thing to say.
I saw you at our ten year
reunion
with that big-mouth
you married
and I tried to be
friendly
but it was hard
with him there.
I hadn't seen you
since the party
when you rode out
of my life
on his back,
him prancing into
the bedroom and
closing the door,
you laughing.
You were so beautiful
that night, though
not very feminine,
drunk and riding piggyback.
I waited until
the party was over
but you never came out.
I told the pizza girls
how much I wanted to tell you
"I love you," but couldn't
with big-mouth there.
They gave me a free cannoli.
They're nice,
but not very
feminine.

Before the time
that men besought
themselves to write
their tales,
there was a man
who dreamed up
letters.

He sat alone
beside a rock
upon a prairie
conjuring ideas
that swirled within him;
the more he thought
the more the thoughts
demanded words;
the more the words
demanded letters,
the more he thought.

Soon he found he couldn't stop. All around him charcoal scribbling began to appear. His friends laughed and said, "What is that? Even a child can draw stick figures. Those are just scribbles." They couldn't see the pattern. The letters were just crazy lines.
Once when he stood before them and read the scribbles they laughed some more and slapped their legs and thought him a clever storyteller. But they never dreamed he had written those ideas down.
The prairie turned white and he would walk around stamping the letters large, with his feet, in the snow. And they laughed some more at him stamping in the snow. And when the spring came, he took the shoots of the new reeds and soaked them and rolled them between two special stones and sharpened a feather to a narrow point and with the syrup from a dark blue flower, he etched his letters as tiny as he could onto the dried papyrus. And the young ones, the ones who could see his markings without squinting, were silent and watched him and wondered.

"What are you doing?" asked a bright-eyed girl.
"I'm keeping my thoughts," the young man replied. "Want to try it?"
"No," she giggled. "I'm afraid. They may make a fool of me if I keep them."
"Oh, **," he said, "you may be right. There's risk in this endeavor. But not much now, since I'm the only one who can see them when they're kept."
"Then I shall sit with you and see what you have done."
The two sat upon the rock and the young man asked, "Would you like to have a name?"
The maiden giggled again. "I have a name," she said. "It is Ariel."
"It is good to know you, Ariel, and with the birds your mind does soar, but would you like to bring your name down to the earth where you can see it?"
"See my name? That is strange, this thing you say. The name I have is only there when another says it."
"But I can make your name appear upon this rock."
He put his hand upon the rock and looked into her eyes.

I live in the house of peace
where softness reigns, where
the news is watched but easily
ignored, were not stupid, here,
we just choose a different path
where all things don't collide,
and there is a buffer zone
and foam rubber reigns
and we are all trained to
subtly reject all incoming missiles
and fill the world with songs
and what else, whistles

there once was a fisherman
who went looking for words,
(he knew exactly how close
the words words and worms was)
so he took grubs; and pushed them
up into an inconspicuous place
where they festered and were
expelled, (completely without grace)
he survived in the end, without
comment, without friend,
but he wandered, and now is here