What Is Known

What I, not so secretly, want to do is say I told you so,

Especially after those decades of hearing,

You’’re crazy, that never happened, that’s not true,

That’s not how it was, your memory is wrong,

Now I see documents, authority, the authority 

You said you didn’t care about, who cares

What those books, or papers, or forms say, they

Are wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

Well, maybe everything that was ever printed 

Is crazy or mistaken or wrong or couldn’t

Have happened, especially not in any of those

Ways that are written down by idiots

Who didn’t know any better because who are

They to question the words of a hero?

But now, seeing names and dates and places

And times in well remembered cursives

Of George and Helena, for their golden boy James,

declaring on penalty of perjury their reality, 

We the undersigned do solemnly swear this minor

child of ours into the protective care

Of the United States Marine Corps where he

will become a man of god and honour,

but who, despite each promise wanted 

his momemt in the tropical sun,

which wish came true as he spent the entire

duration achieving a Hawai’ian tan.

A calm, like a warm south Pacific wave rolls 

Over me without the fog of battles past.

Golden Key

I know which figs to reach for 

It’s a simple matter finding the sweetest

And just so

life could be as sweet

But it is not

I am stunted

Nipped at the bud

By my own hand

And blame the world for making shears 

For fear of bearing rotten fruit

I hang tightly to precious

Perfect 

little blossoms

a cage of straining limbs

leaves curled in anger

The way out

Carved

into a key

Thrown away

But i am always mindful 

Of the glint

From where it landed

37 Calle Vela Blanca

July 2017, 

37 Calle Vela Blanca,

San Jose,

España, 

street view,

A young couple

with old connections,

breaking, repaired,

frustrated, in pain,

pieced together,

wrapped in summer 

on Calle Vela Blanca,

White Candle Street,

Spanish heat 

burnt sentiment

dessicated tears

blistered hearts

and dry vacant lots

near that house, 

with its pergola draped 

in bougainvilla

inside its garden wall,

outside a small white gate,

that red 50 gallon drum

and stunted cypresses

down from 

Calle Cala Higuera,

Fig Cove Street with

its green garbage skip,

a century plant, 

where above

the final bloom

balanced on 

power lines,

and sitting atop 

a power pole

that pair of doves

gazing  quietly,

at the mystery

of a long embrace,

after

he said she said

after

his helping hand

assisted her, 

in rising from

her grief,

where, she sat

head in hands

after

he stood

outside her

comfort zone,

gesturing

as he and she

give startled looks

to the singular parade

of google’s passing,

that white, red, green,

yellow, blue, clown car,

with its black robot camera

silently recording

a passion play,

and over there,

yards away, up

on Calle Cala Higuera,

a man wearing 

his green shirt

and red shorts, offers

momentary glances, 

not caring,

what he sees

the dejected pose,

the frustrated gestures,

well staged

for Google’s camera, 

backward forward,

a final separation,

a reconciliation,

a vulnerable moment,

a most

vulnerable moment, 

on Google earth,

for an entire planet.

a virtual corner 

turned, up

from C. Notario, 

or down 

from C. Cala Higuera,

but take a last look,

July 2017 is gone,

it’s October 2018,

or 2020

that couple, gone,

those doves gone, 

a century plant gone, 

that ephemera

gone, a summer,

gone.