Albatross

It's not the bird, it's the sea.
It's not the sea, it's the wind
or lack thereof.
It's the way the bird
is always there
when the wind is not.
It's the way the sea
refuses to move
which makes us bitter.
And the bird is totem
for the fate we claim
controls us. The stillness
we fear and the first breath
of air it rises to meet
and announce. Which,
for all we know,
may be the last
we will ever know.

Downeast

Boat upside down
on the shore
like a house
tilting to the east.
Light enters it
like a thief
or a poor man
carrying a statue
of the baby Jesus
wrapped in an old raincoat.
This story is a thousand years old
but is being told for the first time
again.

3 Found Poems

Found Poem: Practical Geometry

Geometry, is
that Science
which treats of
the descriptions and proportions
of magnitudes
in general.

Found Poem: A Line Is

 A point is that which has position but no magnitude nor dimensions.

A right line is length without breadth or thickness.

A mixed line is both right and curved.

A curve line continually changes its direction.

Parallel lines are always the same
perpendicular distance and they never meet
though ever so far produced.

Found Poem: An Angle Denoted

 An angle is
the inclination, or opening
of two lines, having different directions,
 and meeting in a point.

When an angle is denoted by three letters,
the middle one is the place of the angle,
and the other two denote the sides
containing that angle; thus,
let a b d be the angle,
b is the angular point,
a b and b d are
the two sides containing that angle.

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.