OF MICE AND RATS

Living on a steady diet of rice,
forswearing the whey
for The Way,
the white Anglo-Saxon mouse
studies the ancient culinary arts
of its cousin, the Asian rat,

Inevitably,
his thoughts turn to cheese;
chunks of cheddar and creamy
camembert, gouda and gorgonzola
muenster and mozzarella.

As the diminutive turophile
runs down a mental list
of his favorite cheeses,
his tail and whiskers
twitch excitedly.

It is the way of a western rodent,
but he has chosen a different path
and meditates upon the moon
hanging
like a great wheel of Swiss in the sky.

What he would not give
for a single nibble from
its caseous surface.
Perhaps, he thinks, a western mouse
should not seek to emulate
an eastern rat.



THE MOVING MEN

The moving men are at the door,
Waltzing a danse macabre through the ghost stricken rooms
Of your once,
So called life,
Finalizing your divorce
By hauling all your belongings off to auction.
The last thing packed and sold
Is the ennui that had served you so well.

Every room is a mirror, every mirror
A reflection of some convoluted episode or other
From your sordid, insipid past,
The fables you made of your life.

You dream of glockenspiels banging in your head, a discordant
Concerto, the theme to some
Imaginary, expressionist drama
Where you always had the starring role.

They were gay, those years
Before being kicked bowlegged by life,
When youth and adventure
Were a slobbering dog licking your face.
You moussed your hair in those days
And didn’t worry about halitosis or alimony.
You wore shiny silk suits
And polished Italian shoes
And pretended to be
The King of Bohemia.

In the middle of the room
Where you stand, calling your love
Who won’t come,
Because she’s out clubbing,
The moving men continue their dance.
Looking for more of your possessions
To haul away and when you protest
There is no more,
They collect you in a box
And mail you six feet under.

Originally appeared in The Storyteller, 2010 

THE WORLD TRAVELER COMES HOME

How long has it been
since I passed through
those dark villages of my youth?
Those quaint, one stoplight metropolis’
lined with antique shops, well manicured lawns
and buggered old men on church stoops,
smoking away the day.

In Spring, people were liable
to break into spontaneous dance
just because the lilacs had spread their blossoms
and the fresh scent of green rain
that permeated the air.

Unfamiliar accents could be heard
echoing all up and down the town square
and these sleepy, Midwestern towns
were suddenly as cosmopolitan
as a European city.

Going home, I become lost
in the accentuated vowels
and clipped, nasal voices,
till I no longer know
if I am still in the Midwest,
the East or the South
or roaming the streets
of some tiny, Italian market.

published in The Storyteller



THE WOMAN OUTSIDE MY WINDOW

I know I’m not dreaming because my feet
Move me from bed to window.
A woman stands below
With a skull and crossbones

Tattoo on her eyes. Her mouth opens
Releasing a cloud of pale, gossamer moths,
Her words rise like silent balloons
And sail off harmlessly into the gloom.

She’s come with accusations.
I pretend to be a silhouette
Trapped in the window shade.
I am a lamp, a mannequin caught in the moonlight.

I can remain motionless for hours.
I’ve had years of practice as a statue.
Her eyes set fire to the house around me.
I am a stone.

She fades with the breaking dawn.
The light drowns the flames.
I return to bed and dream I’m awake.
A woman stands outside, below my window.



NIGHTFLYING

Crossing the sky at 500 miles per hour,
my disembodied head floats along at 30,000 feet.

The cities are dimly lighted tombs
passing by at a million lives a minute.

The cabin is nearly empty, quiet as a mortuary.
The only sounds are a few stifled coughs
and the hum of the engines
as we chase the night westward.

A woman, two seats up, reads a book.
A seasoned flyer, she displays no alarm
at the sudden turbulence.

A fat man grips the armrest, his knuckles
as white and sweaty as his face.

The pilot’s cold, detached voice
tells us we’ll be landing shortly.

The ghost in the window keeps pace
as we descend the icy reaches of Heaven.

Looking back over the miles,
the distance traveled,
trying to reclaim the vast, dystopic landscape.