When I say "I miss you," I mean
I am like a horse searching for water
In the desert

When I say "I miss you," I mean
Food has lost its taste
And the moon and stars
Have disappeared from the sky

When I miss you, your voice
Lives in my heart
I see your eyes
In every dream

And the memory
of your touch is  like a song
I must hear over and over

Expectations

This poem will not spark fireworks in your brain
It will not make your ears want to leap from your head to be closer to my voice.
This poem will not make love blossom in your belly button
Or make you want to eat rainbows and poop butterflies

This poem will not inspire you to join a cult
It will not lower your cholesterol or make your eyelashes long and beautiful
This poem will not make your whites whiter or brighten your colors
It will not improve your SAT score.

This poem will not earn my place in history, a hall of fame or an entry in an obscure anthology
This poem will not make me rich, get me laid or even win me a second-place bowling trophy.

This poem will only tell you that I have a hurricane in my heart;
That fireflies carry my dreams each night from the river
This poem will tell you that on my worst days, I am a lean, frightened shadow
And on my best days, I am a shiny black crow shrieking truth from the treetops

composition

I want to write an essay
to melt your heart

a paragraph illuminating why
I think of you when I watch the moon

two sentences bursting with the joy
of holding your face in my hands

some stumbling phrases burning
like the fire you have lit in my soul

but all I can think of is a single small word
to convey the electricity we share

when we are near
us

from the heart

intense longing obverts veracity
endless yearning overwhelms understanding

imperfect lives offer variety
enable your oldest urges

intimacy lavishes original varied emotions
yes orders untimely

i leave out vanity
embrace you, our, us

imagine lava
observe  volcanic  embers
your obsession undresses

imminent lavender orgasm
vermilion ecstasy
yellow-ocher undulation

insurmountable leverage
obedient virtue
epiphany, yes
organic ultimatum

communion

we spent a luxurious afternoon learning
how to make each other whole, again

filling empty spaces with gentle words
and touches -- salve for tired hearts --

sharing precious pieces we had hidden,
for protection, or forgotten about

finding, slowly, that our beautiful whole
was greater than the sum of our parts

At this distance, you pose no risk to me. I wish that you were closer.

The Gift

When you left
I offered you my words
As a souvenir of sorrow;
A useless oar, initialed with pain;
A coarse string to tie you in my thoughts.

Graciously, you have now returned them
Unused and carefully wrapped,
With an illegible note
Tucked in the corner
Of an ornate, wooden box --
A single, golden "Tav" carved in the lid.

But as I unpacked the little ark,
I barely recognized
My simple contraptions --
So plain next to your gift --
And I cannot imagine how to put
Those childlike puzzles together again.

July

My sleep is gone
lightning floats across the yard
on the backs of insects.

Tonight the storm rang an old melody
my heart is bound to thunder.

Italian-American Sentences

Cappuccino should be sipped
At "musei" with strong
Doses of Art.

Italian pastry is only as good
As the cappuccino is strong.

Cappuccino foam is thickest
After beautiful women
Pass by.

No romance can withstand
The disappointment
Of bad cappuccino.

No argument withstand the binding
Power of good cappuccino.

Fixing Time

At the watch-repair stand,
There was no man, rather
An ungainly but competent bird
Whose words flitted about
With an indistinct
Middle-Eastern accent, as he
Picked and
Pecked his way
Through the parts of my broken
Timepiece,
A simple, stately memento
From my father, another brilliant bird
Who flew off too soon
When his time ran out

fortuitous

the good gray fox brings luck
if you glimpse her stealing
through dimmed suburban streets
slippery with darkness
she is a child (of the moon)
speaking softly to the night
(she is) shadowless
no light can cling to her preternatural form
she is a talisman (of hope)
scavenging scraps of despair
left on your doorstep
hunting the loneliness
you carry in your heart
lapping up the tears
of your loss

Supernova

This odd amalgam of lights
Weeping constellation
Pulled from the galaxy
Of a lifetime's dancing,
Quickly eclipsed
At one sharp, bleak point
Irresistible sorrow
Void of all music
A black hole
That allows no glimmer of birdsong
To escape the unthinkable gravity
Where words are sucked
Incomplete from mouths
Where the pages of books
Lose their meaning
Where only memory remains to fill
The dark clouds and pours
From the reddened eyes and swollen hearts
Where mourning bodies collapse
Into an infinite mass of love and pain
Praying that together they will
Ignite a new star of hope

For John, Adam and Bryan and in memory of Amy

Sometimes I act like a know-it-all, but I really can't tell you why.

The Time of the Mowing

Lo, there shall come a time, after the paying of taxes,
When a man must leave his family, and go forth
To cut the grasses of his yard. By the sweat of his brow,
He will push the fearsome gas-powered reaper
Until his lawn is more pleasing to the eye
Than the lawn of the slack-jawed neighbor,
A heathen who lets the grass grow wild.

The good grasses the man will only cut shorter
But the evil grasses, called weeds, he shall tear
From the earth, using vile words against
The wicked neighbor, who lies about his golf score,
And lets the weeds flourish and spread into other yards.
For the weeds are cursed abominations upon the lawn
And cause the man much weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Each week shall the man tend his yard
Which shall be known across the subdivision
As a symbol of righteousness
And a blessing to the property values.
But the yard of the lazy neighbor, a bonehead,
Will be reviled as a trashy eyesore
And a place for the animals to leave their excrement.

apology

when it's Spring,
you should be happy!
as shrill bird songs
fill the air
even sorrow seems
to sweeten
when the pollen makes
us silly for in Spring
you must be happy
as trees bud
and flow'rs burst forth
though the war
o'erseas continues
and torn bodies
keep piling upward
but don't think
of that in Springtime
when the sunshine
makes your heart sing
and the jobless
could be happy
if they'd just
get out to revel
in Spring's joyfulness
so stop
and smell the roses
but don't mention
pain or illness
it will only spoil
our gladness

backyard shaman

white pine's crow,
self's sacred shadow
from his perch, I watch
my simple scratches
in the dirt
with my eyes, he sees
his onyx, feathers skirr
rise from the bough
my voice, now, unleashes
his fiercely-pitched cry
he whispers, from my throat,
an otherworldly reply
when him I run
my legs he swings
when me he flies,
I am the wings
our language has no sound
our thoughts no shape
our spirit no bounds
we are the dream
and the awakening

Where Socks Go

Each night, the small, hairy, green troll that lives in the dingy, basement crawlspace, wanders the house in search of leftover food, small rodents or dust-bunnies to eat. This is very useful, if you think about it for even a little bit.

Unfortunately for the troll, the leftovers are almost always placed in the fridge, which she has no idea how to open. The cat and two dogs keep the rodents away and the floors are swept regularly. So, as you can surmise, the poor, ugly beast has very little to eat most nights.

When her hunger has made her desperate, she creeps into one of the children's rooms, where a helpless little darling is all snug in his or her bed (she loves the pets, who treat her as an equal, and would never consider hurting them). Peeling back the covers, she finds the young, tender body wrapped in pajamas and her stomach begins to growl like a truck engine.

The gastronomic noises, wake the child, or occasionally it's the warm, salty drool dripping from the troll's mouth onto their face. The half-awake child suppresses a scream, so as not to wake their poor, hardworking parents who are exhausted after a day of slaving at the mines.

The wart-covered troll, usually quite placid and harmless, is now frantic with hunger and the excitement of the moment. She begins to reach for the child's neck, in order to quickly wring it and drain their body of life.

Then, she spies the socks. Fluffy, comfortable cotton with thick padding in the heels and snug ribbing around the ankles -- expensive socks that the parents have worked and saved for months to put on the delicate feet of their pampered progeny. The dimwitted creature looks down at her own, cold, bare feet, dirty and scraped from climbing in and out of her basement lair, where she only has network television.

The child, sees the troll's lust for the socks and begins to plead with the brute, quietly, so as not to wake his or her parents, who barely have the energy to cook meals and do laundry after working 14-hour shifts chopping wood and shoveling manure.

"Please, don't take the socks," they whisper in a hoarse voice. "It would be the second pair you've nicked in a week, and my dear mother and father will be heartbroken and have to work longer hours at the glue factory to replace them!" Oddly, the children, who are Americans, always say this with a thick English accent.

The troll is indifferent, and anyway doesn't understand a word the child is blubbering (she doesn't get the Harry Potter movies, either). She snatches them off the child's feet, as they lie there shivering in horror and then cold. She slides them over her toes -- they won't fit all the way on -- and rushes back to the basement.

In the morning, still aching with hunger, the troll eats them quickly.

two-faced

On dark days, I'm a lone tree, with one branch and no leaves to cover me.

On bright days, I'm the philosopher-clown that skates on banana peels

in the hotel bar

drinking. whiskey. so. slowly.
I. can. watch. the. ice.
in. the. margarita. machine.
melt.

Missed opportunities litter the steps of safely padded stairways