I woke up today and wished for winter

I woke up today and wished for winter.
I heard nothing but childlike snowflakes do-sa-do from leaf to terrace,
The gritty plumber from 218 pouring rock salt,
One stubborn streetlight flicker amidst the reflected brightness,
And two pairs of inadequate sneakers crunching through the virgin snow.

7.11
s.d.

I'll bring you to your love

I'll bring you to your love
So get to know me.

Let me show you how a man cares.
I'll give you a Hallmark card, a feather, a violet day.
Enjoy my Riesling, taste my quiche, hear my songs.
Let's smile at each other, hold hands, and kiss
By the fireplace, at the pier, in front of Radio Shack.

I'll meet your needs and satisfy your desires.
My shoulder is bonier than a pillow and I'm warm.
We can laugh or concentrate on the blurred silence,
I can speak brusquely or in wrinkled tones.

Choose your moment and manner of departure.
Slip into the electrified neon of night, or instead
Be one of my new best friends.

In one or two years, I'll come to your wedding.
I'll purchase champagne flutes from your registry.
I'll take lots of pictures and enjoy almost every minute.

7.11
s.d.

This has been quite a year. (13 reflections...)

The year felt long but it flew by, and I'm quite certain it's the same length as any other.

Handshakes turned to hugs. But waves became smiles, nods became glances.

It seems we were often too busy to be tired yet seldom too tired to be busy.

Beside my childhood home, there was a bristling stream beyond the chain-link fence. I didn't explore it much back then but I've missed the sound.

In theory, we could all publicize our personal stories, yet most of us won't.

Others shared my struggles, thus I felt less peripheral.

We found good jobs, lovers, and friends, and so we worried about something else.

Corner apartments and sunshine suit me.

Although you said yes instead of maybe, and maybe instead of no, it wasn't to mislead me.

It's because of all the choices that I was fearful of missing out.

From time to time, I forgot that the median bar was higher than average.

To everyone whom I've laughed and shared with: we're a part of each other. Surrounding myself with people I can count on is what matters most to me; thanks for your support.

We should have played cards. Next year, I'll make time.

s.d.

Night on the Mission

A tilted eyebrow, glimpsed that sultry night
Meandering through bleak, insipid haze
Amongst the skinheads, ashes, Miller Lite
By dim-lit corkboards circling hipster greys
Some splattered words amidst the muted noise
As unlit candles, sharing cigarettes
A fancied trip to Vegas with the boys
For silken dizzy crystal minuets
Within a scarlet smile turned to blue
The softened spikes left hints of molten rust
From hill to hill, omnisciently we flew
Until black morning chewed us into dust
     If I'd been weaker you would still endure
     Some welts upon your consciousness, for sure

10.10
s.d.

Lucid for Islands

I am lucid for islands
in a row, the pungent
refraction of sunny
nodules in the sheathes
brings a glowing
nostalgic parmesan.

Opaque holes clamor
for depth-defying
pestilence. Forward,
bliss, crisis, and the
pinwheel's ineptitude.

Fallen upon a kitschy
spark, the present,
and my shredded
pancreas sits in tubes.

1.11
s.d.

Molera Park

She pondered the pebbled sand
The tide crept in slowly as a three-legged iguana
I witnessed this in stillness, thinking
     of...and remained silent.

1.11
s.d.

Inbox

Again, my Inbox grows from zero to one...
And so it seems the day is never done.

11.10
s.d.

Ode to Pinot Noir

Sleeping with open eyes and typing fingers
I digest a random Pearl Jam song
And smile fondly before the new echelon.

I consider the what else
How I tripped up, but wouldn't change a thing
And landed in cloudless California.

10.10
s.d.

Friday

My calf is aching
And my brain can't quite process...
Can you repeat that?

9.10
For a friend.
s.d.

Peruvian Incas

Peruvian Incas
seldom suffered heart disease
and loved building stairs

8.10
s.d.

Old Logging Road

The old logging road
An orange salamander
And I realized this couldn't possibly be a haiku
There was too much to say about
The pitiful lizard squatting in the gravel

Bright as a neon sign
Hardly cloaked
Seemingly afraid of our footfall, or curious
Or searching for Stratton Pond
As a dozen more appeared

The old logging road
Looking like the Vegas Strip
Blazing with construction orange
Of thousands of salamanders, the only diversion
From a piercing rainstorm

7.10
s.d.

Ten Ways of Remembering April

Reprieve from February. Tramping through
the Garden State. Played games to pass the time.

Talking of amber in afternoon heat. Walked with a noticeable
limp. Coquettish smile without laughter. Eye noticed
the red velvet cupcake. Pale as a salted cat.

Impermanence is such a beautiful
word. Most days it rained.

2.10
s.d.

Wanderer's Barter

Trundling onto another capsule,
Lugging my shirts and chargers,
I wonder if I'll still smile
Or merely nod in acknowledgment
Upon arrival.

     The wanderer's barter: a few
     Flat snapshots - nothing else
     Captures the confusion,
     The high-water mark etched in
     Adrenaline...

Exhausting pats and attaboys
From glazed-eye acquaintances,
I wonder if this marks an end
Of acknowledging nods among
Checkered-flag friends.

6.10 (revised)
s.d.

longing for home

rising rising in the air

above a world hes left behind

he stares out the window

and sees merely clouds

interspersed with the waves

five miles below

for a few fickle moments

the insipid hum

of the jets siren song

teases/tempts/traps

his fragile spirit

yet he cannot decide

if his ultimate ride

leads him forward or back

puts him on the right track

if it renders him stable

or wholly unable

to face life alone

with a heart full of stone

hes a wizened wayfarer

a will-o-the-wisp

an ancient memory

a human being

a few hours pass and

the jet glides down harshly to the

specked surface of a black tarmac

but the journey is over

for him and he breathes

a sigh of relief

its been an endless

hour/minute/second/lifetime

and hes tired

all the world is aloof

hes almost home now but

he stops short

and wonders where exactly that is

but there is a voice in his conscience

guiding him softly

so he closes his eyes

and forgets everything

before this moment

and smiles because hes home

11.07

I wrote this six years after "desire to travel."

s.d.

desire to travel

early early in the morning

before the trees are even awake

i lean out the window

and focus my eyes

upon some distant spot

at the horizons edge

for a few wafting minutes

a spectacular sight

my eyes behold there no

birds/breeze/butterflies

scatter my attention

yet somehow i know

that if i were to go

to the place im yearning

eyes barely discerning

i still wouldnt find

the calm peace of mind

that slowly unravels

for someone who travels

im a nomad in chains

a vagabond cooped up

a wanderer in a glasshouse

an anchored migrant

soon it is noon and

the sun climbs the stairs to its

regal throne in a sky blue sky

but its sovereign kingdom

seems as inaccessible to me as

the sun itself

its been a lengthy

day/week/month/year

and its late

even the trees are asleep

its almost black now but

for a few stars

and the shades are drawn shut

but there is a lamp on beside me

so i let my eyes adjust

they meet your eyes

and i see my future

and i forget everything

before this moment

11.01

s.d.