Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Button Up

Preparations For A Michigan Winter

A man cleaned the gutters last week his truck
ticking in the driveway with a number
to call emblazoned on the doors above 

a website I didn’t visit below
and a little bit forward of ladders
I didn’t climb that bridged a bed I paid

one hundred and forty-seven dollars
to ignore all those nested five gallon
buckets nestled in blue tarps and leaf rakes

with missing tines and a Husqvarna
gasoline leaf blower capable of
generating wind in excess of two

hundred and fifty one miles per hour 
I barely heard over The Bill Evans
Trio from The Complete Village Vanguard

Recordings, 1961.  Somewhere
between “Waltz For Debby” and “Gloria’s
Step” I replaced the old furnace filter. 

Monday, November 24, 2014



Quiet here last night drinking in a waxing moon
our waning toasts to prim distance between lip and brim
draining color from muted coverage of election returns
the raucous, the red faced, rawboned and rearing


drunk on a livid mash of jack in the pulpit berries
jaws working with poison while we read lips
until they merged into one lurid gash that lingers
on with our morning coffee, rims brined and bloodied.

I like it strong from the hand thrown mug
with sine wave runes where a handle should be
bitter despair discharged through the palm
of my hand to dissipate in a milky lens, the cataract

gaze of a soothsayer who’s seen it all before.
She mutters incantations, utter nonsense to ward off
old banality parading in new brown shirts
cackles worn platitudes about swinging pendulums

ending with a few bars of This Land Is Your Land.
She’s still singing when I step outside with the dog
As honest a ritual as you’d expect to find
On an early November morning, winter on the wind.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Happy Birthday, Sue

Birthday Greetings From the President

It’s what I get for procrastinating  
The President
Was unable to put his thoughts on paper
On such short notice but sends his best
In the form of a form letter on letter head
Befitting a man of his position, embossed
With his seal.  Can’t you picture the two of them?
Loosed in the Oval Office, heedless of the puddles
Fish sailing through the air, nicknames bandied
About (Ole’ Flipper McGee; Ole’ Bumasmoke)
Late night calls to McConnell and Boehner
The seal all business on speaker phone, the President
Gone rubbery, eyes crossed, anything to send
His whiskery pal into conniption fits, collapsing the two
Of them in a heap on the rug scattering beach balls
Taking turns nipping at the bulbs of tinny horns
Greeting Joe Biden with a lewd salute of musical
Blats and wet flipper slaps on the back.