A Person Sitting In the Dark Am I

sitting in dark am I

in these shadows

grown by the moon

whose dull light

robbed each tree

of green

and sky of blue

only to shine the merest points

at this earth

to tumble from broken mirrors

what a strange existence live I

among the murmuring lost,

a path along the stream

spirits deflect futures

at a fleeting touch

afloat in currents

formed nowhere.

a conversation began

now or then

with whom or them

how long ago

it happened again

and again we spoke

and spoke

against our walk

our steps

on ancient streets

of a river

where memory,

thrown unheeded,

by happy dead

who smile

and laugh

and work

and trod,

their eyes, oblivious

to this color washing cities,

sometimes stare,

you at me or me at you,

with lives

full of watchful anger,

or envy,

or bland joy

wrapped around,

of tears, streams, washed sullen

from faces

who now so live .. or not

Puffer Fish

you had that salt water tank,

remember? in your living room,

in the old house on spring street.

when I first saw that puffer, I asked

why you put a poisonous fish

in with the others.

the puffer was cute, you said,

it looked like you and hovered

at the center of the tank.

you said he didn’t bother them

and they didn’t bother him,

they all just swam around.

one night, after dinner,

in the tank, that puffer

started moving funny.

you screamed at your step-kids,

your 2^nd wife, they all ran

to find a net to fish him out.

I watched as he kind of did

an underwater herky-jerky dance

and rose belly-up to the surface.

in only moments, seconds,

the other fish in the tank

did that same dance and died.

after you picked up your drug habit

had step kids in rehab, got divorced,

got arrested for grand theft,

a remembrance of other fish

dying when the puffer died

is why I said you were toxic.

Nephesh

From unknown knowingness

indistinct beginning

such jewels begin to color

pathways of paradise.

Jade and ruby motion

gather time from nothing

through air to light

across this brief respite

from shadow.

Out By The Equator

Out by the Equator

there’s one o’ those places

all ex-pats go.

Crowded between streets

packed with motor bikes

the food carts pushed

by vendors shouting

special sauce

maybe a souvenir

hawker or two

waving postcards

or carved wood

dicks equipped

with bottle openers

Yeah, this place

it’s not too big

and a shout

will fetch an exotic look

from the bartender

but that beer arrives

after growing a pair

of legs with a smile

like California sun

and a heart like flint

so you and the few

talk how things

have changed

since tourists

found the old

hangout.

Now expat A

and expat B

commiserate

in their vodka cloud

how the natives

just don’t behave

anymore.

Happy Hour

Happy Hour was days ago,

         that bottle of rye is empty.

All the glasses are clean,

         the ice long gone.

Then you smile,

         and I am drunk again.

The Watching Earth

The watching earth

releases words,

mouthed by a corpse,

telling of the Far-Away

where no door,

bolted and locked,

shuts out
foggy truth.

From a Harbor of Pleasant Aspect

From a harbor of pleasant aspect

         exploration began,

a search for an end of horizons.

Decades with spice and tales of exotic sex

         return with a tide

flowing with fragile secrets.

Such thoughts hung in a dark vault,

         together with journeys,
Far from the weight of noon sun.