17/52: an answer

where are you going in the rain?

the concrete sidewalk is darker with puddles

here and there.

you are barefoot

and the wet on your feet is cool.

the summer heat is melting away,

running off into the grass

and not burning your toes.

the gray of the sky is all the answer

you or I are likely to get.

15/52: orange forgetting

it's only occasionally that I go through the effort
of getting a knife to cut into the rind of an orange

usually I drive my front teeth through the skin
vampire-like, rupturing

then rending with my thumb,
pulling back the protective layer, chunking it

but it's also only occasionally that I toss the scraps
on the ground, not placing them in the trash can

the peels from last year, the last time
I was heedless, was callous

are still there by the roots of that tree
the edges turned up, but still accusingly orange

these transgressions, however small
in the face of the universe

are not forgotten
in the grass.

14/52: tanker truck dream

I'm driving my tanker truck through town -
a short one, just 10 wheels -
the hoses neatly rolled on the back, thick
and heavy,
the stainless steel nozzle locked to the side.

You could mistake me for an oil man
delivering liquid heat
for dark nights when the neighbors' houses
seem a thousand miles away
across a tundra of unshoveled snow
but that's not me -
not what I'm doing.

I've got a tank full of soul,
I've got bottled light -
follow me down to the Square
I'm going to unroll my hoses
and fill the fountain
with song

a geiser ablaze in color will burst forth,
the pennies and nickels
will transform into streaks
of silver and gold
rushing through the air
between the mid-day shoppers
and the hipsters drinking coffee
on Main Street

Yeah, yeah, yeah!
I'll shout, right hand squeezing the trigger
to keep it all flowing,
left hand waving wildly in the air

but you'll know what I mean
when you see me in my white overalls.

there'll be someone that says
damn fool
but we'll ignore him or her

till the tank runs dry

13/52: possible

I'm on again, off again
on the whole subject of mortality.

I mean

they say everyone's got to die eventually
and on Tuesdays
that sounds perfectly reasonable.

But today is Friday.
and the ironcladness of that statement -
the rigidity of thought behind it -
the sheer conservative dogma -
generation after generation just giving in -

come on, people!

let's make pizza from scratch tonight
we'll have flour on our hands and pants
the sauce on the stove will fill the house
with the aroma of basil and tomato -

let's take our glasses of cabernet
out onto the patio and watch
the airplanes fly overhead - lights blinking.
We'll contemplate the fact
that they said man wasn't meant to fly.

11/52: and in the night

and in the night
I am on my toes
going from room to room
like a sneaky ballerina
(really, is there another kind?)

people are sleeping
and only the moon sees me
come and go -

we share the secrets of the near dark
these are the secrets that are knowable
if you are awake
when everyone else has drifted off

10/52: winter's fist

winter's fist is melting open
fingers suddenly loose
we can begin to wriggle free
and breathe.

8/52: when I think of you

of the things you said,
only the final words remain.

do you remember records?
do you remember how
the concentric circles could look uninterrupted
and you could be playing one
with only the slightest hiss over the hifi
grooving to a song about love
or forever
or how even the nights were better

when suddenly the needle
would get caught on this hidden pit
you completely missed before
and the sound would go
from sweet
to ear knives?

nothing could get you to listen
to that record again.
the memory of that moment
stares at you with gouged out eyes
and you want to forget all of it.

you long for DJ Charon
and the smooth water tracks of Styx
to wipe away not just the last moment
but all of it.

and that's what I want
when I think of you.
to sell our record to some hipster
who doesn't actually listen to vinyl
but has a wall full of them
to show his friends.