breath-stained window pane

there walks the old man and his dog

too shy for introductions

I sit idly in my bedroom

the moldy scent of the slanted

shack floor reminds me of my dog

who died in the crawl space

after a row with a snake.

a hole was dug adjacent to

the old well and my dad

dropped her in that Sunday afternoon.

the glass fogs from my breath

I outline her name in the pane

within the "s" I see the old man

gently guiding the elderly dog

across the mossy stones of the creek bed.

in the spring,

magnolia flowers bloom

I climb each limb

until fear takes control.

maneuvering each step,

my eyes pause between branches

where stands the old man and his dog.

a kind smile unfolds across

aged teeth and his eyes

hint at dignity

distilled in golden brown bottles.

we eat honey with

muscadines from branches

and treat the old dog to venison.

we sit under the vines

with soiled seats and grass-stained shoes.

empty mason jars fill

with daily walks and talks

past the strawberry garden

and bee hives.

the old dog lays in the shade

near the hunting shed

until our return.

after easter service

I walk through fields

and woods telling myself

the story of Bluebeard.

down the path near his

house crouches

the old man with his dog.

the old dog comes to my voice

his wrinkled face bumps into

my knee with now vacant eyes.

the night fills with a misty spirit

and the shadow of the old man

and his dog gently glides across

his garage door.

the night is divided by the

piercing cry of gunfire and I

practice drawing his
name across the windowpane.

halcyon hours

Each halcyon hour
discarded by foolish
grins into the wastebasket.
The sunlit afternoons
spent in pine needles
and ginger ale.
Bodies imbued
with love and the
ineffable nature of
words. Each of
us struck the minutes
against the matchbox
and watched
their burning heads
drown in rain puddles.

A dulcet summer taste
hides beneath the tongue.
The scent of rain and soil
beneath our bodies
sweetly knocks at my
door as I walk along the
path. Now I schedule my strolls
and organize my poems
by hours and memories,
seconds and rhymes.

Each halcyon moment
we discarded with
grins among the reeds-
I think of them often.
On nights
when each scar of
the moon is made clear,
I sometimes capture a
fleeting memory in a jar
and tap the glass
until I fall asleep.

I do not pity the immigrant

I do not pity the immigrant.

he – a wondrous vapor in a whirlwind.

the past is not easily traced

and his future alludes

cynical prediction.

sins are simple memories

fondly revisited

and no one knocks

at the door to collect rent.

his hands leave no print

arms, legs, body, hair

resemble none living near

so he moves slow

between the rows of people

escaping stares

coldly running down the nose.

the park bench is his sanctuary

with an advertisement

in a language both foreign and near

there is not a neighbor

who recognizes the echo of his boots.

no friend knows how

he takes his coffee.

beauty and release

obscurity and facelessness.

I am the immigrant.

I have not yet chosen a favored cigarette.

I smile at everyone I see.

I do not know their

pains, trysts, and heartache.

There are no feuds or bad

blood flowing in our veins.

My knowledge is of bus routes,

cheap hotels

and coffee machines.

My scent and walk

strike a sharp note

in the ears of those

walking two-by-two down

corridors and subway steps

the eyes of others

run down the lines and angles

of my slouching stature

and broad frame.

I am the ex-patriot

who drinks too early

on the comforting steps

of the seven-eleven

I am the immigrant.

I smile at everyone I see.

I have not yet chosen a favorite cigarette

so I will wander, rummaging each pack.

I Like

The sound of fingers typing/ the smile of an old man gazing at a child/

curse words and lofty prayers/ trimly cut finger nails/

watching the noodles soften to perfection/ unstrapping each bra clip/

lighting your cigarette/ dancing until my shirt and tie are damp/

trimming my face with a false since of dignity/ cream melted on the bagel/

the click and clack of steps down the alley/ feeling the tire fill with air

the boldness of bourbon/ each bird whose name I never learned

soda crackers dipped in my morning coffee/ the determined look of the chess player

each brittle of clay caked onto the blue collar worker/ watching the street lamps light up

peeling bananas with care/ and writing with no aim of its own

Ode to a Velveteen Chair

Poor Chair.

I pushed you to the fringe

Of our apartment in an attempt

To avoid your ugly mustard shade.

You- my sweet wife’s bastard child

Fathered by an unknown upholsterer-

I despised and expelled from the den.

Placing you in the cold and quiet sunroom,

I moved you as far away

From my favorite bookcase as possible.

In this quiet sanctuary you stood
alone and with no one to talk to

Save the elitist stationary bike who

Criticized your slouching stature.

I remember Thomas the Hobo slouching

at the corner of Burgandy and Touro

near Washington Square.

I stopped to have a cigarette

With Maggie the accordion player

And observed his lonely quarters in

The alley. He slept in a corner

By the dumpster on aged carpet

And a Van Gogh window pinned

To the wall showed a beautiful night never to be.

A small patch of

Sunlight poured through slits of

a condemned roof.

In his sanctuary, Thomas rested.

Maggie never understood the merits of visual art.

Days soon became weeks but no comfort

Came to you besides the occasional visit  

Of the missus.

She with her earl gray spent

Hours in your weakened arms

Flipping through Matisse and

Laying foundations for the future.

I cursed you for this and

Left my comfortable position at the

Desk to join my wife with you

In the bright but chilled space.

Sometimes the rain plays a game

With each brainwave it interrupts.

I found myself unable to sleep

And driving to the store for

Milk and bread. I stopped

And had a drink on the way

Home but lay awake

Like Caligari’s monster.

The rain pitter pattered and

I considered each aspect

Of my life in hopes that boredom

Would send gentle pleas to the Sandman.

Stumbling to the kitchen, I

Poured a tall glass of water and

Selected a book from my favorite

Bookcase and followed each line

In search of rest.

Slowly, crawling up the armrest

To the top of your faded head, a sweet

Silence over took my mind.

A vibrating purr softened the twisted alloys

Of my attentions and my thoughts

Quietly lay down in their beds.

Thank you for that.

Hands of Mortar, Hands of Dust

Those hands tilt downward

from their perch upon the armrest

fingers pensive

broken under the weight

of life and buckle to the bone

As a child I marveled at the

Veins and calluses which mapped

Out the mountains and valleys

Of fingers, palm, and back

Craters and cuts split down

The lifeline who’s astrological

Contents disappeared with

Each fingerprint over the

years grasping the trowel.

Threads tore from my tie

as the sandpapered digits

sought to demonstrate and

teach the Windsor knot.

Small scratches aggravated

my skin during each short,

muted moment of extolment.

The sun beat bright through

its cloudy balloon and burst

through the air to dry

each layer of crust

on the pitiful baseball diamond.

Lifting the mallet,

those hands drove down

each wayward fence stake into

quiet submission.

Until one delinquent post

escaped its bonds

and a chunk from the tip

of a solitary finger

broke its line

a river of life-giving

stream fell like blessed water

into the cracks of

the pagan ground.

Those hands averted

the bright, sun-lit

attention of others.

They toiled in the darkness

among the filters,

cylinders, and valves.

Or, when on the scaffold,

Insured that each

line was pulled tight.

Courses made plumb

Tapped down until level

while each flake

each brittle of brick

was dusted off with

a quiet, simple pleasure.

My mind wanders

to a misty morning

spent watching fingers

stained by tar and clay

etch the lines of a face,

surmise its perimeter,

and cut with precision

each rising stock

each facial blade of grass.

Putting aside figures

and small, model cars

I sat at the mirror

pretending to landscape

nonexistent tufts of

determined masculinity.

The skin on my cheeks

burning with irritation

sardonically thanked

me for my hastiness

with the razor.

Does that night still haunt

the roads and intersections

which scar those hands?

The evening when they were

pulled abruptly from

seclusion only to be thrust

into the blinding

rays of daylight.

Boisterous tussles

and jocular shoves

of a youth attempting

to comically show his strength

released that damaged finger

from its careful, white

costume of gauze.

Thrown from its confines,

its wounds once again

poured their precious contents

onto the cheap church linoleum

sealed by the slates of

sour sweat and caked mud.

Though not mortal-

the wound proved pivotal

to a relationship in flux.

While the flesh groaned in

Modest discomfort, the soul

Sought solitude from

the attention of strangers.

The eyes then connected

and disclosed what each

stern extremity was

unable, unwilling to convey.

A silence crept over each

member of that shoddy

lobby while the understanding

of what transpired

dripped into my mind

like the deep, poisonous

ink of a pen into a fish tank.

My juvenile vantage point

struggled to understand

the portrait sketched

that night in that room.

But my hands continue

to feel each minute’s pulse

when the geography of those hands

envelopes my own

in a firm shake

with a pressure only

Atlas could describe

in lines of meter and rhyme.