OPTIONAL POETRY

Today is a veritable catalogue of rains: the relentless washing rain; the sudden faucet rain; the don’t-answer-the-phone rain, drowsing; the tree-derived drops; the sad sloppy drivel of the overflowing gutter; the rains of my childhood; the rains of last April; the is-it-raining? rain; the gray verticality of a shock downpour, splenetic; the smeary window panes, pleasant; rain from a clear blue sky, the devil beating his wife; now where did I learn to say such […]

Velella, called sail-by-the-wind, thousands of them blown ashore, jelly gone soft in the heat, wing-like sails flagging in defeat, a row of seabirds forming to feast upon the indigo dead, seagulls more than willing, pelicans looking windward for something better, trusting in the Pacific’s strange generosity, its willing deposition of curiosities, penchant for grand gestures, a low tide that goes out and out and on and out, a risky invitation, still, I cast my bread and wait.  

Woke to a breeze, thoughtI must have carelessly left  a window open, here,back in the city, but no, everything is closed,still, silent.  What a strange place must exist just below  the surface of consciousness,  that I could dream up wind, and feel it.  

I was just calling to say that I am on fire. You told me to rain more. Or was it, try not to mind? Either way the lines got crossed, distance no comfort, I’ll have to resort to homing pigeons. Or smoke signals, more like.  

To leave the window open, to wake to the sound of the ocean, here, there is peace. Even if I still wake too early, still can’t get back to sleep, I can watch the sun rise, sunrise a misnomer, really, here the clouds just get brighter, shades of gray between night and day, and even before dawn the spotlight on the neighbor’s garage kept flashing on, motion -sensored. Just after five I walked down to the beach, discovered […]

I try to exist in two phases: the barrier is constancy of motion. It is not for action I cut the plane with a fiberglass blade, not for momentum, a current pulls along in any state, even without me, the boat will float even in pieces, even beyond. The first barrier is waiting. Or is it wanting? Every night is a river running and I am a shadow, a dry-sider, trapped on the surface of […]

Kept hitting snooze till a character in my dream said it was time to go. I don’t even know, hustling down the hill, face full of sun.  The sticker bushes outside unkempt houses lash out, try to draw blood. Heat spurring growth and anger, bikers constantly squeezing by on the sidewalk. On your left, on your left. Your right to pass ends where my thorns begin (says the bramble. Not me.)

I try to clean.  They’re showing the space. I’m strangely keen to impress those who will take my place. Let it be said, her mirrors shone. It won’t be noticed. I think of my mother, lift the stain from the kitchen floor. A fleck of toothpaste from the sink. An errant leaf. Erasing the history of the past few weeks.Were that there were a sponge that could do more.              

Is it a dog? A box? An aftershock? Two things that follow. One  that contains.  Or, constrains.We’re out of packing tape again. And dish soap. And everything.I could draw a line through  the days on the calendar but that might be too decisive  an action. They spill away,next week the ocean, the week after, fires. And every night it’s too hot to sleep.