norman

its early

the city is hushed

and streets are so empty

speeding paramedics

don't bother with sirens

but out by the stoop,

hands on his hips,

stands norman.

collared shirt loose

with open sleeves

and a gut hanging out

in clumps from past surgery

and hair like mountain brush,

both wispy and dense,

barely contained

beneath a ball cap.

he has already checked the hallways

for homeless sleepers,

in all the dark corners

where he found them once

ten years ago.

he looks up the street at a stray

lazily pawing across the pavement

then back the other way

towards the first rays

of morning traffic.

in a few hours

he will stand guard

like a preschool teacher at dismissal

as the bins he has arranged

so carefully on the sidewalk

are poured,

one by one,

into the trash truck.

then he'll usher his empty vessels

back to the alley,

where he'll arrange them again,

tuck them in,

and kiss them goodnight.

walking home last night

color caught my eye

under a lamp in a parking lot.

the front half of a horse,

colorful and empty,

lay lonesome in the yellow light.

systemically poisoned

fallen branches crackle and hiss

and disintegrate and drift

up into the air

in a million tiny particles

that swim down my windpipe

and leave me itching for a month.

she pressed her face with her hands

and repeated phrases

of excitement and happiness

and i thought she might cry

but all i could do was keep smiling,

wider and wider,

as i searched my memory,

trying to determine who she was.

two stone fingers

skyward like a blessing

and gardens and playgrounds

lie about its base

like a loose bracelet.

and where do they reach?

this granite gesture,

it beckons,

but who answers?

she's at the hospital now

her name called in the waiting room

scalpels parting her flesh

and tests upon tests upon tests.

her shell has gone bad.

warmth and light feed it

and make her ill.

and the surgeon,

piercing and prodding

and peeling back layers

will make her well again.

a weight like thunder

descended upon my brow

when i arrived home

and i don't understand it.

like trying to imagine

an infinite expanse

i grasp ahead

thinking for a moment

that i can comprehend

but it eludes me

always a step further

than i can organize.

his temples quivered
like a tuning fork or
a puddle of water
by the train tracks.
i listened from the back seat
as mozart bellowed and slammed his fists
but try as i might,
i couldn't hear the tones
that made his hair stand up
and his eyes narrow
and his head shake so slowly.
a few years later
i saw his hair stand up again
but his eyes were wide
and he laughed with
frightened guilt
then told me to get a towel
but i stood, staring,
leaning on one foot,
then the other,
shocked and frozen
by the blood now
streaming down my brother's shin
and filling his shoe.

sometimes recording the

beauty of life

is too distracting

and the best i can do

is sit and watch.

the surface of the pond

looks like static on an old tv

as thousands of rain drops

reunite with their brethren.

the old man with an accent

changes his socks

and blesses strangers' children

while a woman

takes pictures of an ambulance

and calls it "the police."

apt. 200

a few days later,

after everything calmed down

but before the ebb and flow

of daily currents

softened all the edges,

i pulled a name tag off a mailbox

in the foyer of my apartment building.

"robert oakes."

i may not have even met him,

i don't remember

i certainly did not understand.

but who did?

his neighbors eavesdropped

on ghastly details

and his parents limped with grief

when they collected his things

and everyone who heard

told family and friends

and started serious conversations

but no one has a clue.

i cannot understand

how the same hand

that wrote on a mailbox name tag

could turn against itself

could pierce its own flesh

could wring out its own body

like a wet towel.

and how the same child

that wailed in its mother's arms

and greeted the world with wonder

and graduated from high school

and came home to visit

on christmas and thanksgiving

and easter

could end up lifeless

on a folding chair in the shower

with a carpet knife

and blood seeping

through the crack under the door

soaking the carpet in the hallway.

the contrast is too great.

and that name tag--

it feels dirty.

i pulled a book off the shelf

and threw it inside.

i don't know which one

and i don't want to.

but some day i'll flip it open

"robert oakes" will fall out

and i will not know what to say

all over again.

the pile driver shakes

and shutters and rings

and fills the air

with smoke and clanging echoes

like a locomotive turned on end

jerking slowly into

a vertical station

where men in suits

lie on their side and wait

to roll onboard.

men in dark clothing

lie sprawled across the sidewalk

around and under

an old chevy with new disk brakes.

down the street another man

makes monster noises

at his daughter.

sirens wail and moan

like grieving mothers,

wandering the city,

searching for bodies.

a snow white mophead

wriggling at the end of a leash

and a foreign couple

displaying affection

at the other end.

the news broke haltingly

first at dinner, at a restaurant

nice enough to impress two kids,

then again,

in my grandparents' basement

on the carpet by the bunk beds,

then again,

at the cape in the dark

where i could roll over

and hide my face.

and each new discussion

came with added assurance

that this was real,

that life was not

how any of us thought it was,

that everything we knew and trusted

had betrayed us.

we rummage through each others' hearts

like raccoons through the garbage,

sifting through the refuse

with clumsy dirty claws

searching single-mindedly

for a rotten apple, a pizza crust,

an orange peel

and then, after snatching the morsel,

and stuffing it between our teeth,

we flee into the night

leaving bags torn open

and contents strewn about

like two by fours

after a hurricane.

the moon

last night i listened

as a story, told

and retold, passed

from person to person,

arrived at last by

way of my coworker--

pink floyd shook the walls

around a boy at a party

who sat, transfixed,

his brow furrowed

and punctuated

by beads of sweat.

hands curled up like

spheres of muscle

and eyes glazed,

he was immersed

and overwhelmed

by the music and medication

pulsing through his veins.

then finally--

when the ending notes drifted

past, and the moon began

to turn, he could not bear

to see it and could

not bear to turn away and

could not bear to look back

at the world unfiltered and felt

only relief in glass breaking

around his body, like

plunging into a crisp blue pool

after baking in the sun,

as he threw himself

through the living room window--

and the concrete below,

swooning slowly towards him,

looked as gentle and soft

as clean white sheets

after a long day.

acres and acres

of white vinyl siding climb

up the walls of the

spanish church of god.

twin spires point to

heaven like fort lauderdale

shuttles while the clang

of a distant pile driver

echoes like a migraine.

my desire for

efficiency surrenders

in the face of an

elegantly wandering

path through the park.

fire fighter boy

sits at the county fair and

considers his hat

and his official

fire fighting t-shirt and

cellular phone and

how he could use his

fists and attitude and his

fire fighter training to

beat up anyone he sees.

the wrinkled woman

paces through the woods by the

roller coaster while

talking on the phone.

fried dough and tractors.

competitive pulling

of different objects

by men and machines and horses.

unhealthy overpriced food

and the flour and

the blood and the diesel fuel

is all churned up with

pure and sweet, liquid nostalgia

for something i have never known.

"a bloomin' onion,"

she says. "a corn dog," she adds.

"i'm not getting one,"

her sister answers.

summer fairgrounds await us

and i am tired.

page by page flip by

smiling faces, ballet kids,

grandma stops in.

i search for patterns

scanning eyes for something, but

i come up empty.

i see these frames like

movies stills, illustrations

from some kids story.

but listen:

no one wrote this plot

there was no exposition,

no character arc,

nothing will be concluded.

without a second thought

i have joined the endless

pursuit of meaning

in meaningless artifacts.

tune in

she pours out her heart

and sniffles when the cameras

zoom for a close up.

but NOT THE FATHER

echoes in big red letters

and the show moves on

to another tale

of waterfall eyes and slabs

of flapping arm flesh

and the crowd hollers

and claps and stands while maury

looks on knowingly.

bills

a dark, low kitchen

carved into ragged slopes of

lumber and dry wall.

he's at the table,

surrounded by deathly beige.

glasses down his nose,

and placemat pushed back,

replaced by stacks of bills and

a calculator.

the darkness outside

seems brighter than the empty

florescent glow of

the family kitchen.

he sits there often, pen in

hand and brow furrowed.

it is in this room

that he will take his world

in his chubby hands

and tear it apart.

an expensive bill, a chunk

of wood and an axe,

and the cave will collapse around him.

the cat's paws dangle

off the chair like sleeves of a

discarded sweatshirt.

i woke up last night.
the moon glowed yellow above
still air and water.


pinwheel spins slowly
stuck down in the flower bed
on a cloudy day.


my grandfather talks
about acetylene in
the bed of a truck.


wicker furniture
has lost its definition
under paint layers.


hazy blue mountains
and stacked firewood beside
an empty trailer.


mountain valley sewn
like a quilt from uneven
squares of bright sunlight.


the car swerves across
the highway as my mother
studies the road map.


miami mustang
jacked up on firewood logs in
backwoods new hampshire.


brush blows sideways as
a whistling battalion
of cloud charges past.


she slammed on the brakes
two times: once for a bear and
once for a large rock.


the chubby young boys
dip sleeveless shirts in the brook
and then wring it out.


he videotapes
a large fake moose while we look
at an old carriage.


bring distant points of
interest within close range with
use of this machine.


we sit on the floor
at the top of the tower,
and we catch our breath.


he wears a suit and
a yamaka, and pilots
a blue bumper boat.


mom records a short
video of her attempt
to take a photo.


robert uses the
sucking power of his mouth
to drink iced water.


the plastic cups are
adorned with multicolored
dinosaurs playing.


robert is too scared
of haiku's to write them at
the dinner table.


robert is just a
little baby. "waa waa waa
waa." he cries from fear.

the world is light gray
and blurry when i wake up
and get on a train.


my neighbor asked me
to accompany him home
after the doctor.


train tunnel darkness,
lit by another passing train,
no full of people.


car door swings open
and i'm hit by the sweet smell
of fresh manure.


my mother and the
mother of my mother. they
discuss skin layers.


the young lady yells
loudly and without purpose
about her hormones.


teenage punks play games
and chuckle in the town square
with some cigarettes.


in the kitchen he
stands and talks about flooding,
while his nose dribbles.


the boats knock against
the dock down in the lake as
frustration rises.


my eyes can barely
stay open as the western
movie progresses.


a large brown bear is
watching me, but don't worry,
it is just a plush toy.

i am beginning

to wonder how many songs

this band even knows.

i'm surprised to hear

the final verse of this song.

its is not well known.

a young boy walks up

and his chest is badly scarred.

everyone looks down.

skin drawn tight over

bold cheek bones, a crisp white shirt,

and an old bible.

when the young man's voice

wanders far from the tune, the

old man backs him up.