"Cogito, ergo sum"

The full story is that Descartes,
when confronted with the question
of existence, answered,
"I think, therefore I am."
and followed up with,
"Are you?"
which garnered vacuous stares,
forcing him to suggest that they
"Think about it."

Pears

Pears

Forgive me
for eating all four pears,
but after the first,
I couldn't help myself.

The sweetness of their juice
reminded me
of your kisses,
and I craved more.

And for the image
lounging in my brain
as I licked the last bead
of nectar into my mouth,
forgive me.

Just a White Boy

She glides into the cafe,
her coffee colored skin
simmering in the fire
of a hot summer night.

Dignifying the room
with African elegance,
she silently gazes around,
her wise brown eyes soft
above smooth brown cheeks.

She sits at the counter,
a royal queen on her throne,
and orders hot milk
in a delicious mocha voice.

Glancing over, she graces me
with a slow shy smile that declares
she is unaware of her beauty.

And at that moment, I am stunned
and yearn to reach across the space
to touch this goddess.

But I don't
because
I'm just a white boy.

Jive Feet

Hey feet, my bony old friends,
what are you doing down there?

You keep walking me into trouble
then standing flat-footed
when I try to hoof it.

Last night
when I saw that pair of high heels
sashay over to the bar
with that look on her face
you should have danced me to her side.

But no, you shuffled me over
like a hick from the hills,
no strut, no stance.

And then as I stood there empty-headed,
wanting to run for the door,
you gave me that snail's gait pace
that lasts forever.

What gives? Why the stutter step
when we used to dance the Flamenco?

Hey feet, my bony old friends,
could we try this dance again?

I Do Not Know Why You Write

I do not know why you write:

Maybe nothing satisfies you more than the vision of your words
diving off the tip of your pen to splash onto the paper
with the smooth stroke of your hand where they’ll swim
across the page in time to your synchronized eyes
and then flip over to the next line to repeat the experience
while you congratulate yourself on your wit.

Maybe you like your words to sprint out of the blocks from the starter’s gun,
racing the stopwatch down the stretch to break the tape
at the finish line in a gasp of victory while the also-wrotes fall
to the track in agony over their loss,
or is it because you enjoy testing the stamina of your stories
in a slowly building marathon of images,
hoping they have the strength to maintain their form through the last sentence.

Maybe every word is a twelve round battle between you and the demons
that dance your pen around the ring, jabbing, feinting,
trying to stay off the ropes, as you counter every cliché
until the bell sounds to end the round,

knowing

the fight will last forever and that you’ll never see the left hook
or the roundhouse right that’ll eventually put you down in the middle
of the ring for the final count.

But maybe your words are like the wings Daedalus crafted,
and you are Icarus almost touching the sun when you write.

Walking on Water

When asked, he replied,
"I figured it was easier
than swimming."

Hair

Some folks have the kind of hair
that always shines
no matter where.

Morning, evening, or pouring down rain
their hair looks just great;
it drives me insane.

With a shake of the head their hair falls in place,
each strand sitting perfect,
framing their face.

A law should be made, 'cause it's really not fair
that some folks are born
with wash and wear hair.

Little Boy

Little Boy wonders
if a dream can come true,
if he can always stay small.

Little Boy wonders
why his face needs a shave;
he hasn't yet learned how to crawl.

Little Boy wonders
why he's forced to grow up,
and doors are locked from behind.

Little Boy wonders
if his children can see
the nightmares at work in his mind.

Little Boy sits
in his house on the hill,
staring into his coffee and cream

and wonders why time
has robbed him of life
and stolen his Little Boy dream.

The Girl Next Door

The Girl Next Door:

Okay, I admit it, I still live with my mom and dad, but what’s wrong with that? They pay for everything: my food, my clothes, even my entertainment, though I must say, I’m pretty easy to please. Heck, I even let them tuck me in at night, but that’s more to give them a sense of worth than anything else. But mostly, I stick around because of the girl next door.

She really is something else. I think you'd agree if you ever met her.

It was love at first sight. When she walked in the front door I fell for her worse than a startled old crow trying to dance on an electric fence, literally! Suddenly, I got all weak in the knees and had to lower to the floor. And yes, it was humiliating, sitting there on the tile like a dang toad in a fairytale waiting to be kissed, but she acted like it was nothing and gave me the sweetest smile I thought I’d die.

Then she bent over and whispered, “Hi there big boy, my name’s Candy,” in a syrupy voice so sweet I ached to lean in and lick the words right off her tongue. I didn’t want to wait for them to reach my ears; I needed to taste them the second they came out of her mouth. I mean, what would go through your head if someone said that to you? Believe me, I almost choked on my spit.

As if that wasn’t enough to send me over the edge – now picture this if you can – there I was splayed out on my butt, staring straight into the top of her blouse at the perkiest little melon breasts a man could imagine. They were absolute perfection! Her nipples were barely hidden under the lace of her bra, but I could see the faint darkened halos of her aureoles pressed against the sheer pink fabric. It took my breath away.

I know you’d call me a pig if I told you what happened next, but I couldn’t help myself. Without thinking, I brought my hands up and cupped her breasts. It seemed like the natural thing to do. Now keep in mind that she hadn’t walked in the door more than a minute earlier and here I was, already showing my appreciation for her feminine attributes. She should’ve slapped my face, kicked me in the groin, and called the cops.

But she didn’t.

And she didn’t move away.

Instead, she gave me a little smooch on the cheek, helped me to my feet then led me to the couch.

It was almost embarrassing because my mom and dad were standing right there watching every move. I couldn’t wait for them to get the hell out of the house so I’d have Candy all to myself, but they must’ve dithered in the doorway for five minutes or so before they finally took off.

Less than ten seconds after their car pulled out of the driveway, Candy turned to me. “You want to play some games?” she asked.

Stunned by the rapid evolution of our relationship, I was speechless. All I could do was nod.

Well, I won’t go into all the details of our antics. Suffice it to say that at the end of the evening, I came out totally exhausted.

It was a dream come true.

That night I slept like a baby.

So, that's why I stick around these parts. It's because of the girl next door. And honestly, I'd really like to just crawl on over and move in with her right now, but it might be better if I wait until I’m potty-trained and learn to talk.

When the rat ate the cheese

When the rat ate the cheese and the spring sprang the trap
and the snap of it splattered me out of my nap
and I climbed to the attic to peer past the dust
and saw the thing grin with a congressman's lust
to empty my wallet and tell me I'm fine
while he dines on my dollars and slurps up my wine
then lowers the taxes of those who don't pay
because with their billions they don't know which way
this country is going and this makes them sore
because it's the fault of the young and the poor,

I gazed at the rodent so surly and smug
then took out my hammer and clobbered the thug!

To the Shadow in the Corner

Why did you vanish
and where did you go?
I waited all evening
but you didn't show.
I drank all my wine
and then ordered more;
at two in the morning
I crawled to the door,
yet saw only shadows
and slurred all my thoughts.
With frazzled emotions
all tied up in knots,
I howled at the moon
and puked in the street
then rose to my knees
and searched for my feet,
but I couldn't stand
to utter your name
although in the mirror
we both look the same.

I search for myself
and test my reflection
then wander the world
in every direction.

Tomorrow I'll try
to find you again,
so hide if you want
but you'll never win.
Running away
won't hide what I see
I'll always be there
and you'll always be me.

Jiu Jitsu

We are driving home from a typical lunch
during which I choked on my foot
half a dozen times and shot it several more.

The car is quiet with my remorse.
I need redemption.

I notice a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu school
hidden like a ninja in a low-slung strip mall
and mutter that maybe I should have indulged
in martial arts as a kid.
It would have taught me humility
and, probably, I'd be a tenth degree
lethal weapon by now.

She drives while I begin an extended soliloquy
on strikes, kicks, throws, joint-locks,
chokeholds, and pressure points, all of which
I know nothing about.

After a mile, she turns up the stereo,
but I'm delivering a kick and throw
my voice into a screech that can toss
even the deafest opponent
to the ground in a fit of agony.

But she's tough, merely grinding her teeth,
her eyes hardening to the road
while my monologue drains into her ears.

Yes, if only I'd spent my youth
studying the martial arts I'd be
a killing machine, a lethal weapon!

A tiny smile twists her lips
as she swivels on her seat, gives me that look
(you know the one), and says,
"But you are a lethal weapon, my dear."

"Whatever do you mean?" I parry,
wondering if she's finally cracked.

"Words. . . you kill them with words,"
she replies.

And I'm still not quite sure what she means
but decide not to parse her words
because maybe she's just found the chokehold
that throws me to the mat in submission.

An Old Man Looks Out

An old man looks out
across a dry plain,
searching the fallow fields
for sprouting rows of fresh faces
who hear the taunts of his time
and tell themselves
this is not their song,
who smell the putrid stench
of rotting ideals and turn away
to sniff sweeter perfume
than the rank odor
of yesterday's politics,
who taste the bitter bile
belched up from the depths of war
and shake their heads,
saddened by their fathers' stupidity,
who feel for their fellow man
and aren't afraid to say so,
whose eyes are not blurred
like his were.

Illusionist

You can pull me out of a hat,
hide me up your sleeve,
saw me in half as the audience gasps,
or turn me into a bouquet of flowers
clamped between the teeth of the Bengal tiger
you've just created with a tap of your wand.

You can levitate me into the darkness
of the rafters and make me vanish
in a cone of smoke before their astonished eyes
and then bring me back with a shake of your cloak
and sink knives into the spinning cork board
you've lashed me to while parents look on
in horror and cover their children's innocent eyes.

But after the show, remember,
I will grab your hand in mine,
and we'll disappear into the night
like one of your magic tricks
and that this will be no illusion.

The Old Men

As the old men gather
in groups against the wall,
a gaggle of thin men honking
hoarse horns,
bleating yesterday's escapades
into a mash of mendacity,
the room rattles with words
stitched into a cacophonous
haze of lies that cannot hide
their weary, jealous eyes
twitching toward the young men
who stand aside, waiting
for their turn in the circle.

A Canticle On Crap

Crap! When you don't give a crap
about crap, you just don't give a crap,
which isn't crappy because
giving a crap makes you feel crappy,
and that's a bunch of crap,
so walk away when crap happens
and let someone else clean it up,
if they give a crap, which most don't,
but remember that ignoring crap stinks
and might be the cause of all the crap,
and that's really pretty crappy.

Reflections

It is autumn outside the thin skin
of glass I stare through to see
a single leaf drift down
from its mother tree, leaving
her bony skeleton shivering
inside a frigid breeze
while her thin, barked arms
stretch heavenward in sorrow.

She will die now for a time, bough-bent,
naked against winter's wrath
until spring brings life to her limbs.

And within my cocoon,
I consider my streaked reflection
in the pane, wondering when
autumn will find me, waiting
for that quiet tap on the glass
that says, "I know you're in there."

Negative Space

Silence sits on my lips like a snake,
slithering its slippery tongue out
through a scaly slot to sense
that single second when the strike
cannot miss its mark.
Coiled, my silence teasing
uncertainty into your words,
I wait
for that perfect pause
to fill
with the fruit of my fangs.

Desteindre

Because I have been tattooed
from the beginning,
you can wash your hands of me,
but the stain on my heart remains.
I have tried to scrub it clean,
yet your ink has written
an indelible story into my skin.

It will not fade.

The detergent of time
only makes your lines more distinct
against a bleached background,
and laser treatments are worthless.
They cannot erase my memories.

I have no choice.

Come back and finish
what you began.
Come fill in the shadows
of my future.

I squished a fly!

I squished a fly
and watched it die
so now it doesn't
try to fly.
I hope that I
try to fly
up until
the day I die.