Lately I feel Lost in Space

when it comes to making a decision.
it’s become a dizzying prospect
choosing from the cyber space
supply of options
in this flash-buzzing
blue light LED
high-tech
wired-in
robotic world
– makes my head spin, like that
black & white
holy commercial
bat-break!
tunneling hypno spiral
on the 4 o’clock
pre-dinner episode of the
intrepid, but closeted
red-breasted
silky black
caped crusader couple, or that
spinning
psychedelic
pie-sliced
prize wheel
on the 7 o’clock
postprandial episode
of Vanna White
Pat Sajak and their

Wheel-of-Fortune!

Giddy for Beachside Storm Surge Fun

must be some kind of

initiation right,

a hazing ritual when

tropical-storm-covering-

tv-journalists

Seavees cemented in place

tethered to a cord

in category 5

hurricane winds

don’t blow away,

or at least sideways

like the violently

undulating background

hair-on-fire royal palms

howling ¡mayday!

the laws of physics

seem suspended when

the singular results of

cyclonic centrifugal forces

are simply sopping-nylon-

clinging-jackets,

messy manes on talking heads

filled with hot air

and unintelligible news-

worthless babbling like

drunken beachside

wet t-shirt

contestants

Violet Crocus Uprising

Like a springtime uprising
tiny violet crocuses
forge their firm
brave cup-shaped petals
through the ice-crusted
crevices of glistening
jagged rock

thawing
from the long, dark
frozen winters of arrogance
aggression
oppression & fear
a culture of regression
hidden

hidden, deeply
in the eerie
mischievous sweetness
of Cheshire grins
firm manly hand shakes
clever adages & the everyday
civilities of conscienceless
cowardly kapos
from unsuspecting
fair-minded
peace-loving
men

brave women
and queer folk
wanting justice
tired of the boys’ll
be boys’ club status quo
blooming resplendent
restoring hope
in radical colors of truth
respect, loving-kindness
inalienable to all

to all
that is sacred
to this tiny, spinning, star-lit
blue-island-orb
snatched savagely
from its heavenly course
into the sweaty, greedy
clutch of fear
and the shock
of a red-headed
cyclops’
vengeance

Dishwashing & Sweaty-Mile Zen

Sitting hard, sitting tall
sitting flat
on the carved wooden surface
of the stiff oak kitchen arm
chair
hitting the books
from 5 to 5, thinking
I’m actually getting somewhere
– all the while
I’m chugging, chug, chugging
cups
& cups of hot
black joe
plus too much inactivity’s
the perfect mix for stiff old
muscles to lock.
from the curve
of my lower spine
to the nape of my
aching neck
muscles turn
into long tall solid
planks of cemented
back pain
the clear liquid soap
drips slowly
downward
onto a blue ceramic plate
like honey
from nylon bristles,
swirling chocolate threads
spin round
its beveled edge
to meet a milky center
like the fleshy
flexed biceps of a
beefy young man,
or the silvery satellite
image of a pitch-black,
twinkling, Cape Cod
night, or the inward-curling
conch shell, of 20 Parisian
arrondissements nestling
tightly ‘round the Seine
I push the suds out & ‘round
to trace a circle ‘long the rim
‘til a creamy white foam
builds slippery & thick
then suddenly, squeals
like a happy pig
spying dinner on its
whafting way
as if by chance
the faucet trips,
but no such thing as
accidents,
a clear warm-water jet
soaks the soapy surface,
rinsing the creamy suds away
while my middle finger
brushes mindlessly,
striking a squeak
from its edge, the steely
foam slips silently
downward
into a swirling
watery vortex
and drains
the stiffness
of achy muscles
feeling the purge of release
climb my spine
like an intoxicating
endorphin rush
in the after glow
of a 20 yo self
running a slow &
sweaty mile

Blue-Eyed Scribe

my tanned,
pale-cobalt blue-eyed
scribe
peers dazèdly into
my ravenous eyes
while a rapturous three-
breasted african queen
hovers like a hungry ghost
over his golden
buzzed, brown
halo.

and a baby suckles,
at her perky third
breast
as he chugs, chugs, chugs
cups and cups
of hot black joe

Practice for Living

The clock’s
tic-tock’s sometimes
louder
than a careening
cartoon bomb
One like
Wile E. Coyote’d launch
from a Looney Tunes’
cartoon cliff
Smack/Splat!
and lurching
toward the 8.23.58
bull’s eye
painted on my head
Some say: Congratulations!
I say: turn this tour around,
let’s start all over again
Then suddenly I realize
there’s NOTHING
to be done…
A calming whisper
gently urges:
“Release, be at peace.”
and the more & more yielding
I manage to become
brings a silence a surrender
Tic-tock’s stopped
and NO explosion.
After all the anguish
said & done
the clock ticks on…

And life’s most precious
wet & winding expeditions
lush and muddy
– infinite with grace
hardly ever, almost never
seem to cease
In yet another calibration
in the endless possibilities
of this zany, ever-looping
Looney Tunes’
parade