Grease Poet


Carl the mechanic
was the first poet
I ever met— 
livin' at home
takin' a few classes
at the local CC
I think us younger guys
in the neighborhood
kinda looked up to him
because he was sort
of a regular guy
but when he
came out cryin' one day
and showed us his
first publication
he sniffed that he'd
tried to show
his old man
what he'd done
and all the old drunk
could do was laugh
and drip snot
all over the pages
Carl said this was typical
of how people
treated poets
which was why I knew
I'd never be one
so I asked Carl
to pop the hood
of the Charger
and show me
the spark plugs
or something.





Stolen Moments in Araby


Lawrence jumps out of the poem
forgetting to put on a shirt.
This is a bus station.
Lawrence looks in the pockets
of his jeans for a trinket
of lost faith.
This is a bus station in the desert
which might be somewhere
near San Diego.
The sun flickers around his head
like a proverbial moth.
His feet are bare and getting warm.
There are no shoes in his pockets.
Those would have helped.
A moth flies straight
into the proverbial sun
of a darker poem.
In the real world,
Lawrence tries again.
Behind the teller’s window
is an arboretum where tickets
grow on trees.
A sign says:
No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service.
He can’t be sure if he’s
going somewhere or if
he’s already arrived.
Lawrence looks once more
in the pockets of his jeans
for something to believe in;
a ticket or a simple rhyme
crumbled deep in the pockets
of the blue pants
which are not his own.





Freshman Barometer


Four girls sit on a bed
in the summer before their
first year of high school,
playing the game of revelation
called “Truth or Dare.”
 
“What scares you the most?”
is the cycling question to which
they will all tell their truth.
 
“I’m afraid of getting fat.”
says the first. Murmurs of assent.
This is a good response.
 
“I’m afraid of being poor.”
says the second. Murmurs of assent.
This is a good response.
 
“I’m afraid of bad hair days.”
says the third. Laughter of assent.
This is an excellent response.
 
“I fear not being understood.”
says the fourth. Bolt of silence.
“What do you mean?” says the first.
“I mean,…. I’m afraid of bugs.”
says the fourth. Screeches of assent.
This is the best response.
 




A Mystic Vine


Fools fall in love
because there is no other way
to go about it.
All the bending and twisting and angling
that must occur is a fool’s errand at best.
In a decade or two
they will each wonder
who was the greater fool
to end up in this ridiculous state.
But they will have been fooled again.
Love is not static. Love is not refined.
Love is a mystic vine
bending, twisting, angling
redefining itself every long day
ensnaring even old fools
because love is willing to live
in the absurd even
if it lives just a little.