He was nice. Friendly.
Hey, how ya doing.
He didn’t know I’d seen him
hide his works as I came down.
Smell of urine on concrete.
He wears nice, casual sport clothes.
I walk past heading to work,
to the stoney vineyard of commerce.
His eyes are set on a far horizon
where the ships come and go.
The sand is white and clean
and someone sifts the entire beach each day
looking for clean needles and China White
that may have been carelessly dropped by previous visitors
who now rest easy beneath the sand
while the waves roll their family’s dreams up the endless beach.
Posted in poetry
If you preach tolerance
and believe all religions point to God
you are Ba’hai.
If you are Ba’hai in Iran today,
where the religion was born,
you are hounded, imprisoned, persecuted.
When did the persecution of tolerance
become the way to be a good Muslim?
If not, where are the voices of Muslim outrage?
Posted in journal
My old hen is a good old hen
She lays eggs for the railroad men
Sometimes one, sometimes two
Sometimes enough for the whole damn crew
Grown men playing a game for love
and maybe for money
in uniforms barely changed
since the 1920’s.
Men named Santana and Hernandez
play with a stick and a ball,
hitching and tugging at their clothes,
pulling at goatees, leaning, squinting,
scratching, digging a cleat in,
mostly doing little or nothing,
until it is time
to make gravity disappear,
and slow down time
for as long as it takes
to make me and every other man
remember how that felt.
Posted in poetry
The motorcade moves stately and slow
through the oddly intimate space
Above, in the book depository window
a nail-thin shadow
The first shot disorients the driver–
and he slows down–even more
Then the second
Then the third
Finally he zooms under the overpass
There is a copper penny taste in your mouth
and a roaring in your ears
Your arms fly up to embrace
the awful change that is coming
Your vision narrows
The bleached world begins to tilt
A magpie in the tree by the road
A song you heard your mother hum
when she walked you to church
Soon will come the caisson and the drums
But right now, just the magpie
and the humming