Can you?

Can you see inside?

Where sensations manifest as words:

light and dark

                loud and soft

                cold and warm

soft and hard

bright and dim

and thus become the other

Can you see outside?

When words transform:

Love to hate

Happy to sad

Joyous to desolate

Love to sadness

Can you feel?

Gentleman in the White Coat

I think he came here

to die, I don’t know, 

he won’t talk to me directly

he has been coming around for four or five weeks

not schizophrenic like the others, not wild

he has remnants of decent behavior

but his dress, once elegant and of fine pattern and cut

hangs loose and frayed soiled beyond daily cleanings

tells a story of hard life

scares his eyes, surely bright at one time

hazy and red rimmed with scar tissue

slow to move, to focus

he does eat when its time

and clearly once regal

stares the younger ones away until he is finished

but he eats little

before his morning nap

or afternoon stroll around the pond

he likes to be acknowledged

with a friendly pat on the shoulder

or smoothing of his long hair

he had a home once, his habits display,

but perhaps steady and calm wasn't for him, to confining 

and he preferred the chase of the wild

he has taken to sleeping outside my window

perhaps he feels the need for human companionship, through the glass
or does not want to be alone, in this chapter 

The Cheerful Tortoise

Did the turtles know they had numbers

painted on their backs, with various shades of fingernail polish,

when they were placed in the polished plywood track

that circled the bar, with lanes marked with green paint,

that the turtles ignored?

Every Thursday night, when the taps hardly moved,

in an effort to sell more beer, thus providing a nutritional diversions,

to those desperately studying, those who hadn’t flunked out yet,

hanging on by a thread, in the spring,

to their deferments

It was the that same spring when Lyndon went to war

and after a stirring speech, evoking  the Perdenales

at least three times, revoked the students deferments

from those erstwhile students, who ceased studying on Thursday nights

to become turtle racing aficionados

almost three years later, in the winter, a guy came to have a beer

and watch the turtle races, just killing a few hours,

after a very long day trying to register for the spring quarter

yes he had flunked out, he told the registrar, but three years had passed

and he would be a good student now, the registrar reluctantly accepted his paper work

the bartender asked for his ID, he pulled out a worn military ID card,

all that he had, he had hadn’t been back long enough to get a driver’s license

he looked like the picture on his ID—regulation GI haircut—gaunt tired looking

the bartender looked him over pretty good and finally with grin said

the turtle racing was shut down by the state, and we don’t serve your kind here

The voice of your brother's blood....(Gen 4:10-11)

I wonder
where is the outrage

for the dead  boy in San Antonio?

as I see Berkeley burning

and Ferguson rebuilding, honoring one

I pause to think

about university presidents

laying on the floor of their homes Chanting  “I can’t breath”

about classes being suspended

so students can march across the bridge, to honor one

I wonder

where are the demonstrators? The fire starters, the bottle throwers?

as a  few friends gather

to hold a prayer service

and carry signs about justice for one dead boy

I am amazed

that these three were all killed by police

but two demand national attention

two demand national violence, national headlines, national outrage, and the president

and one’s name is forgotten in a moment

I am sadden

By the unraveling of the fabric of consensus
 threads loosen and become separate,

with no connections to  other strands

until the ground is littered with indifference

(his name was Cameron Redus)

Published  January 2015 Voices de la Luna, San Antonio, Texas   http://www.voicesdelaluna.com/

damp woolen clothes

More and more frequently I explore dreams of

damp woolen clothes  and wind tossed rain

at the  cold, mist-shrouded foothills,

of the Oregon Coast Mountains, covered with Douglas Fir , huge ferns, and moss

running north and south with craggy volcanic fingers

pointing west into the sea

damp cold clothes trying to keep the heat in from

walking along barren promenades,

rain swept-clean, taking errant sand back to the beach

no one walks in this weather

no flotsam to collect, green glass balls from foreign fishing nets long gone

all is clouds and windswept rain, obscuring the horizon

the tide is slack

but there are no clam diggers this morning

wading in the shallows , or surf fishermen,

in chest-waders struggling against the tides, or old men in lawn chairs

sitting at the high tide mark lines thrown far and stretched taught by the undertow

all not here today

empty streets and shuttered shops

a lie told in the winter

to hide the summer’s tide of gawkers and walkers,

and salt-water taffy eating mommas

struggling with children, trying to run free

a leash? Really? Do you think that restrains the inner struggle?

today the gulls sit irregularly on the beach

hunkered down faces into the wind

whites and grays with yellow beaks

the wind is too strong for them to whirl on the updrafts’

to strong to  fish for small meals in the shallows

obscured by wind-blown waves and sea foam

cold wind in my face, turning around walking backwards

Thinking about my thinking

I know this vision is too idyllic, fanciful.

But, the view of foggy craggy mountains and rain swept beaches

stands in stark contrast

to the view out my window

My doctors tell me

to watch what I eat

I do, I watch each morsel on my fork or in my spoon

From bowl to mouth first passing the nose

I never take my eyes off my food

Like a lover entranced

I take my meals in certain restaurants

Where my senses are overwhelmed

And my heart races in anticipation of gustatory bliss

Dribbles of savory fat

A multitude of sweet or salty crumbs

tablespoons of fragrant tangy sauce  

a soupcon of basil

a whiff of mint

a dollop of cookie dough

and always fragrances

of baking

of roasting

of garlic with pan seared meat and vegetables

in a pot of broth

waiting for onions…

my revelry ends and I think,

sadly,

the doctors meant something else

So I began to cook for myself

and soon l would make these wonderful experiences

for myself, and I did

I bought a new kitchen

And pots, pans, and cookbooks

knives and fancy dishes

I measured and counted pieces, calories, and memorized glycemics

I faithfully chanted “death to the whites”

whilst genuflecting in front of my new gas range

I am obedient to those who “practice” medicine

(how much practice do they need?)

But where did all these damn dishes come from

drug residue

1. Eggs
while cracking two eggs
in the sink
then dropping the shells
in the pan
I wondered about memory
in the moment

2.Breakfast of one's (They said)

one egg

one piece of rye krisp

one cup of tea

one dozen Milky Way

3. Do I need these keys ?
on a lanyard around my neck
i get a ride to the store
and leave my lanyard in his car

later; ring ring the phone
"you left your keys in my car"
"I can't drive today, so I don't need them"

"I'll drive over tomorrow and get them"
"is late afternoon okay?"
"okay"

4. Planning
for your liver eat only carbs
for your diabetes early only protein 
for your mental health eat candy

winter in the life of a tree

The trees are sleeping now

the warming sun  gone   

the days and nights turn cold

causing leaves to flee

dancing and twirling

in the gust and bursts and dust devils

finally resting against the fence

never to attach again

branches have  memories of leaves

that embraced them in the spring

and danced with them all summer

time changes everything

from bud green to rust brown  

fleeting  attachments for the leaves

merely frivolous flirtations

thoughts of forever for the branch

The end is always the same

Time changes everything

nothing is permanent

the branch wont be bare long