The Right Choice

He showed up this morning
looking like a crack addict.
Eyes wild.
Hair unkempt.
Unable to look at me
when he told his story
of the “family emergency”
that kept him from coming to work this weekend.
Now,
he arrives an hour and a half late
and wants me to give him three hundred dollars
before he even starts
so he can go buy tools from a pawn shop.
His were stolen from him this weekend.
I want to help the guy,
but I’m not stupid.
He says he can run get his computer and I can keep it as collateral.
The whole thing reminds me of the panhandlers I see on the street
in downtown Nashville.
They tell me stories of coming back from the war,
and broken down cars, and pregnant wives they need to get to the hospital.
I turn them down over thirty-five cents.
I don’t think I’m going to be handing out three hundred dollars
to someone I don’t know
who hasn’t shown up on time once.
I tell him I don’t think it’s going to work out.
He leaves.
I think I made the right choice.

Dragon's Breath


Do yourself a favor
and stop listening to all the voices
that tell you no.
What the hell do they know?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
You are here
and with just your breath
you can blow the dragons down.
Breathe in,
blow out
and be
all that you
are meant to be.

Ping Pong Player

The mailman is here.
The moment I see him pull up
to my mailbox
I get out of my chair
and run down the hill to see what he left me.
It doesn’t matter if I am in the middle of a song, poem,
thought, etc.
I am ready to leave it all behind and go flying
like some crazed poodle that heard the doorbell ring
and is compelled to respond.
I don’t even think to ask myself if I want to go get the mail right now,
or if it is convenient for me to get the mail,
I just go get the mail.
It’s like that with me.
Something happens,
I react.
The phone rings,
I answer it.
I rarely screen calls.
A bill arrives,
I pay it that second.
My mother calls,
I spend hours in a pea soup of her own making.
I never let things pile up,
like laundry,
or dishes,
or feelings.
I am constantly trying to undo what’s been done.
Action.
Reaction.
Action.
Reaction.
No wonder I’m such a good ping-pong player.
I’ve been playing ping-pong all my life.
Now,
I must learn to sit
while balls are coming at me
and do nothing.

Empty Buckets

This morning I jumped back in to the frenzy
of numbers.
I cast my line into the sea
and waited for the big one to bite.
There I sat
with my little fishing pole
hoping my prized tuna would see my sparkling decoy.
Hour after hour
I waited and watched
tossed about on the deck
till I was green as the water below.
Nothing came of it
except nausea
and the empty feeling that I was chasing
something that should never be caught.
I prefer to fish
just for the art of fishing,
to walk away with the heat of the sun on my back
and the sound of the deck creaking below me.
I prefer not to bring anything home except
the memory
of salt air.

The Good Fight

There is not time to fight the good fight
for anyone else’s life
but your own.
In a moment
it can all pass
like a lightning bolt shooting across
the sky.
And then,
it is done.
Harmon
suffered a massive stroke this morning
and is being taken off life support.
On Sunday night
he was so alive
sitting at the dinner table
discussing life and death with the grace
he always possessed.
He didn’t know that two days later
he would be lying in a hospital bed
breathing his last breaths.
Each day I must begin asking myself
if I am spending my minutes on what matters.
Watching the market fall and rise
or my lover
run through mazes
are distractions.
It is far better to sit in the grass and watch the butterfly
drink from the daylilies
than worry.
All of this other stuff,
these other things,
are nothing to hold onto.
They are as pale and thin as dragonfly wings
blowing in the breeze.

The Apartment

It is a small room,
with two windows facing downtown.
A motel-like unit will keep them cool in the summer
and warm in the winter
and they will have meals in the cafeteria
sometimes twice a day.
Meat and three with cornbread
and a slice of chocolate pie.
It is a bit depressing,
considering they came from swimming pools
and country clubs,
but it will be their home for the next few months,
all four hundred and fifty feet of it.
I can already hear the fights over the t.v.
and the bathroom,
and the kitchen.
It will be a miracle if they survive
a week
without killing each other.

Mental Warfare

You start wondering
if you were in denial
all the time
about the Alzheimer’s,
and the gambling,
and the fighting.
Were you too busy
at college
studying zen,
biology,
your professors,
to even notice
the decline,
fall,
lapse
into the other world?
Now he calls
six, seven, eight times
a day
repeating
the same stories,
the same numbers,
the same resentments.
They were the same stories,
numbers and resentments
you grew up listening to
when you were three,
ten, twelve, twenty-two
thirty-six,
but now they come faster and harder
over and over
like gunfire in a war.
Over and over
dodging bullets
getting hit in the back, legs and arms,
cowering down
under the covers
pulled up
over your head
and you start to wonder
when did it happen?
How were you blind to it for so long?
And are you next?
But mainly you wonder
has it all been a lie?
Has it all been a lie
you didn’t see through
until now?
Who he was?
Who you were?
What you thought you had?
And now,
where do you go to escape
when there is no escape?
Or not even a now?

Poisoned Dogs

In Tai Chi
my feet aren’t supposed
to turn out rabbit
like an old aunt
banging into tangerines.
No,
my instructor tells me to keep them pointed straight
like a cobweb
collapsing and blooming.
Pale arms
candle my walk
as my head stays motionless.
It is easy for him to say.
He didn’t study ballet for years
where out is the royal jelly of the princess.
He tells me I have bad form
from point after point.
He tells me of famous dancers who stopped
twirling by forty
when their knees collapsed liked poisoned dogs.
He tells me I have weak ankles.
I leave the room
sullen as a pancake
left out on the counter overnight.
I thought I was taking Tai Chi
to relax,
not to lift the veil of my past
with a Chinaman’s knife.

Lullabye Nation

In the race for mayor,
our level of stupidity
has sunk to a new low.
A newspaper just put out an article
entitled, “get to know your Mayoral Candidates,”
and then proceeded to ask them point blank questions
such as “Where they eat breakfast, lunch and dinner?”
and who their favorite musical artist is.
The answers for eateries ranged from Noshville (a deli in Nashville)
to McDonald’s,
and for artists the answers were
Ryan Adams and Aerosmith.
There wasn’t a single question about
party affiliation,
personal finances,
positions in regard to pollution, transportation, crime
and education,
nor were there any questions about their plans for the city,
just, “where do you eat?”
Who cares!
I don’t understand what’s happening to us as a people
or as a country.
We are picking our leaders based on whether or not
they eat at McDonalds or dye their hair.
It feels like elections for class president in Junior High.
How cute is he or she?
What kind of clothes do they were?
How much money does their father make?
Do they have zits or not?
Are they on the football team?
We are quickly becoming a nation of pacified morons
who care more about game shows and “reality” t.v.
than we do about what is happening to our country.
The worst part is our press and our current leaders
are happy to keep lulling us to sleep.

Moving The Dead

Good things are coming.
The dead tree that has stood by my front door
is finally being cut down
after many many phone battles with the electric company.
Jupiter,
my adopted dog,
got a home with a family and another dog for a playmate
and, I’d like to believe, a much better life than the one I could give him now.
I’m selling my house to a couple I like,
who doesn’t have a realtor.
My parents are getting an apartment in town
and I’m getting donations no one thought I could get
for Nashville Humane and Metro Animal Control.
I feel a shift.
I wasn’t expecting the tree to come down.
Last I was told,
they said they weren’t going to do it.
Then these two men showed up this morning
with their chipper and chainsaws and started taking it down.
I take it as a sign
that anything is possible.
Just when you’ve given up all hope,
you can open your front door
and everything dead
can be taken away.

No Rain

No rain.
No rain.
The cicadas are screaming in the trees.
No rain.
The Skip Laurels and Holly bushes are praying for relief.
No rain.
The grass is browning from exhaustion.
No rain.
For weeks
there has been
no rain.
What once was green and lush and deep
is now wilting.
Even the weeds have barely managed to raise their heads
above the grass.
It is as if God moved us to Tucson
without telling us.

All Shook Up

It isn’t the tie rods,
or the ball joints,
or the alignment,
or the struts.
It isn’t the set of tires,
or the glove box,
or the windshield.
I’ve changed and eliminated just about everything it could possibly be
and it still shakes.
It rattles around like Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang
without the fun of the flying machine.
I keep getting sent from mechanic to mechanic
and no one can solve it.
I feel like the patient with the mystery pain
in her back,
the one that doesn’t show up on x-ray or MRI.
It’s like my car has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
No one can solve what’s wrong.
Meanwhile I keep driving
back and forth
over road and hill
juggling all the way.
I keep thinking if I try just this one last thing
it will solve it.
But it never does.
Last night,
I watched a Texas minister on t.v.
telling me to “wait expectantly;.”
God has heard my desires.
I bet he never drove a twenty-year old Volvo.
He’s driving around in some brand new Mercedes convertible
with his blonde wife next to him
laughing as the sun bounces off her diamond ring
right into her eyes.

Mother Of The Insane

You with your two eyes
what do you see?
Do you see the apple honey branches
waiting for you to climb?
Do you see the green clowns
that slaughtered the goat on their way to the circus?
Cinderella and the Prince
lived happily ever after
but what about you?
Do you fit into the envelope?
Are you the recipient of the ball?
Or are you the mother of the insane?

Less Than Human

I can’t stop thinking about them.
Their warm eyes
that ask for so little
and give so much.
I can’t stop wanting homes for all of them.
Leroy,
Ebony,
Zoey,
Ava
and
Licorice.
It seems so unfair that we should be free
in this world
while they are in cages.
What have they done to be locked up?
They have not polluted the world
with their foolishness.
Nor have they started wars,
or insulted their neighbors,
or insisted their political and religious views
were the only ones.
They have not asked for the diamond ring,
or the gas guzzling Mercedes,
or the second home in the country
and then fretted like a spoiled child when they couldn’t get it.
They only ask to love and be loved.
They only ask for food and water and a safe place to rest,
not accessories.
Why should that be so hard to give them?
In the shelter
they are pressed against the bars of their cages,
curled in to little balls,
forlorn.
Some have given up their dream.
Others bark frenetically
begging to be noticed,
begging to be given a chance,
begging for their life.
It’s so unfair.
We’re the ones who should be begging for their love
and companionship.
We’re the ones who should be asking for their forgiveness
for all the times
we were
less than human.

To The Moon

You are off somewhere new,
to your new home,
and your new life.
You, who were once alone and had no one,
now have the American dream:
Two kids, a wife, a husband,
a dog,
a fenced yard and a three thousand square foot house.
You, who once wondered where your next meal
was coming from, will now get “all natural” food.
You, who had no one to love you,
now will be loved by all.
You will learn new games,
go fishing,
have your tail pulled,
go to bar-b-q’s where you’ll probably listen to too much right-winged politics,
watch over the young,
and sleep in your own bed at night
under the stars.
You will have the life
(except for the politics)
that I always dreamed of for you.
You will know peace and security.
And me,
I will be o.k.
without you.
I will think of you
and wonder where you are and what you are doing
and I will remember the sweetness you gave me.

The Hen

I can not keep coming
to you in the cage
and not bringing you home.
I can not keep saying,
“Be patient, be patient.”
and think that that will keep you from crying.
What can I do?
My hands are tied
and I can not wring them again.
Each day
I watch
you slip further
and further away
like some red floating ribbon
drifting from sight
curling and twisting in pain.
You,
who have always been my friend,
are still waiting for me
to be yours.
But when I ask what you need
you only cry.
My ears are heavy as tombstones,
numb to the years
and still I have no answers.
I want to be your friend.
I want to take you out of your cage
and give you the home you deserve.
I want to make the memories
of so much neglect
disappear
forever.
I want to be the hen,
pecking and scratching
the dirt
till it is soft and warm for you
to lie in.

Cooking With Chocolate

Sometimes
the sadness is too great
and I have no choice but to put my guitar down
on the bed
and rest.
I don’t know what to do with it.
I have tried
crying it out,
But it returns.
I have tried pretending
it is not there
and busying myself with causes
and distractions,
But it returns.
I have tried minimizing it
and telling myself
how much better off I am
than ninety six percent of the population,
But it returns.
I have tried long walks in the woods
and sitting on picnic benches alone.
I have tried living alone
and living with someone else.
I have tried not talking to my parents
and sleeping with stuffed animals.
I have tried pills,
and Vodka,
and puffs of grass,
and keeping a journal,
But it returns.
I have tried orgasms,
and mopping floors,
and cooking with chocolate,
But it returns.
I have tried therapy
and read way too many self-help books
But it returns.
I fear I shall never be free of it.
I have cried so much
I don’t even know what I am crying for
anymore.

The Egoed Saint

It breaks my heart seeing him
behind bars
or at least I tell myself it does.
Two weeks ago,
I would have been grateful for that sight
knowing that he hadn’t been put down
for some oddball reason
like crooked toenails or something.
I would have been grateful that he was alive
and I hadn’t helped send him to his death.
But now,
now that he has made it this far,
I want more for him.
I want the 100 acre farm with sheep
and cows
and a kindly Mrs.
who will ring the dinner bell
and he’ll come running to the back porch
for a steaming plate of steak.
I imagine his black legs flying,
hips slinging from side to side
like jello in a washtub.
His brown eyes
alive and happy,
herding one four-legged creature
after another into place.
I want all of that for him,
because I love him
and because
I want to feel good about myself.
I want to be the good angel,
the hero of the play,
the one that can point to herself and say,
“see, I did something. I saved an animal from the needle
and found him a little piece of Heaven.”
“Look what I did. Aren’t I wonderful?”
But the truth is
I don’t want to feel bad
about giving him up.
I don’t want to admit
that I’m not ready to love another animal that hard and deep again
and then break so badly when he dies.
I want to love at a distance now
keeping my head cocked to one side
and my heart zipped tight.