Lilly

The single stalk
serves only to flaunt
the improbable

siren song color
no one could invent.
Like someone's underwear
run up a flagpole.
Someone you know.
Because you recognize

the shape and color

that the world is.
And despite
or because
of all that

the owner
of said display
shows no signs

of remorse.

Meals on Wheels

My mother drove for them for, what?
Ten or twenty years? She thought
it was her duty and would sit
and talk to her clients
about the weather, their children,
how hard it is for older people
to get around nowadays.
She would cluck and laugh
at how narrow-minded
the old black lady seemed
to the old white lady from the suburbs
doing her Christian work.
And I would pretend to not be
somehow embarrassed by both
halves of the conversation
she retold. But she did it
and never complained once
about the work or the time
it took. Which is more
than I can say for myself,
the privileged son of a privileged society,
that — even as we speak —
is turning in on itself
only to choke on the excess
it refuses to share
with the world
it has decided
is its enemy.

My Tattooed Heart

I am no good

at asking

for giveness

or anything

my tattooed heart

doesn’t

already have

an excuse for.

The heart has to

put up with a lot

it doesn’t like

which is why

we keep it

locked

deep down

where pride

and several other

vanities tell it stories

we would be ashamed of

were they true. But

dumbstruck

or just dumb,

I come to you now

with what’s left

and offer you this:

take whatever

is good, whatever

is of value in these

veins & muscles

and make of them

something useful

which is all

I ever wanted

to give

to you.

Illustré (Agneau)

The lesser of the sheep.
A baby harp seal with a target
painted on its back
and one bum flipper.
In the movies, it would be
setup for the ultimate little guy
beats evil corporate genius.
But in real life, it is
what we wake up to
day after day. You and I,
dear reader, bleating
over our spilled coffee
while tapping out messages
on broken phone screens
without the slightest hint
that someone bigger
or better than us
is listening.

Illustré (Agami)

The ugliest bird on earth.
Legs like a chicken.
Pot belly, pot black.
No color, no ruffle.
At best it sounds
like a car alarm. Otherwise
known as the "trumpet-bird"
which sounds so much better
in French, as so many things do.
But still no excuse
for its looks or behavior. 
Like us.
Fat, loud, and dull
as ditch diggers
with the pretense
of having read a page or two
of Nietzsche or Kant.

Illustré (Balloon)

Because you can't fly
you invent the balloon
and suspend yourself
in a basket below it.
And because you want to fly
you add propellers and a rudder
to make it go
where you want it to.
And because you are human
you take it to war.
First, to observe the enemy
and later in an attempt
to drop bombs on them.
But you are big and  slow
an easy target
and someone else
will invent the airplane.
You are left to drift
as incongruous as a whale
out of water, or a man
in the air without wings
or a magic suit of any kind.
The magician without an assistant.
The assistant, suddenly reappearing
in the street, years after
the famous disappearing act
that failed to come true.

The Pond

I talk to the pond,
to its black metallic surface,
and it talks back.
Not the frogs and dragonflies
but the pond itself
talks in a low hum
like an airplane taking off
in the next county,
or a book hitting the floor
dropped from the hand of a sleeper
in a house two miles away.
The pond says nothing
terrible is about to happen.
The plane will land safely
at its destination and the book
will be retrieved from the floor
by the sleeper as he prepares
for bed. Nothing bad
is hidden in the depths
of the water: a bicycle, the remains
of an ancient civilization
reproduced in popsicle sticks
and playdough. The abandoned,
forgotten before they even broke
the surface of the dark
mirror they inhabit.

Illustre (Monkshood)

The cowled blue flower
explains its nickname.
The single green stalk
announces the congregation
like a church bell
echoing through a valley.
But nothing explains
the poison that runs
through its various parts
stunning the unexpected,
causing the heart
to stutter and stop.
It has long been used
to dip arrow tips
and to decorate
European gardens.
Death in his brightest gown.
Beauty at her cruelest.

Illustré (Acrobat)

He sits  in a chair
balanced on a chair
upside down
on another chair
while spinning
two plates on sticks
held in each hand.
For added effect
he pretends
to lose his balance
every few seconds.
The audience gasps
in delight. While his wife,
the lion tamer's assistant
watches from behind the curtain
to all appearances, bored
with the entire proceedings.

Illustré (Battery)

I am not sure I want to know
what powers my car. What makes
that churning noise first thing
in the morning. I'd rather think
it is magic. Or 5,000 squirrels
running in place
for hours at a time.
(Scratch that. No squirrel torture.
Instead, think of asparagus
or some other vegetable
fermenting, building
enough energy to power
one third of the eastern seaboard...)
Least of all, do I want to see
the lead plates, acid, and consequent
corrosion required to force metal
and wire into action until
internal combustion kicks in
and technology just one notch
above steam locomotion
moves fast enough
for the banging and clattering
to sound like a hum or roar
I accept as appropriate
for the beast I claim
to have tamed and shall ride
through the streets
someone else built
for just this purpose.