"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.