A brand new pen

I think I’ll buy myself a new pen

One with new words in it so I

Won’t have to use the old words when

I’m crying on my pillow or cry-

ing when I’m down; I know it’s bad

When I can’t rise and face the day

That same old loneliness I had

When I was alone and used to pray

That someone somewhere could come

Along and save this dying soul

Of mine, and no one came, no one

And I dug myself another hole

And lay there in myself made shame

And moaned there in my peppered pain

More than empty ambition

People tell me I’m more powerful than I know,

Saying that it doesn’t go to my head

So I’m almost never drunk on it.

I get the same message everywhere I go

Friends patting me on the back

To keep back the people with knives

My life full of dark plots

I’m constantly resisting,

I’m always falling over clues

To puzzles I never intended to solve

Frustrating my enemies

Making enemies I don’t mean to frustrate

“Trust yourself,” my fortune cookie

Tells me with tonight’s take out,

“You know more than you think,”

and it knows more about me than I do,

knowing that the next steps I take

will be towards something other

than empty ambition or

pointless wealth,

“Your dream life is rich,”

My other fortune cookie says,

“Listen to your dreams.”

and deep down in my heart

I know this is right.

In search of prefection

I keep expecting Spock

To step into my life

The narrative squeaking

Out of a television speaker

Life as hippie, hermit, writer

Listed in the order of their occurrence

The flaws of character

Made obvious by the screen

The craze of million of witnesses

To the demise of a man,

The embarrassment of wasted talent,

Years and years

Of looking for the key

That fits only me,

Flaws waiting as in California

For the proper seismographic catastrophe

To see me free

From this need of importance

To live life without identity,

Or worth

Or perfection.

After the storm

When the lines fell during the storm

There was still hope

The cold wind blowing rain over the roof

Like fingers prying into our lives

Tapping at the windows

Doors and cracks of floor

Seeking to steal fire back for the gods

Huddled up into the corners, poor

Impoverish Prometheus waiting for the claws

Stepping from house the morning after

To dangling power lines

the swaying carcasses

of fallen witches from Kansas

Blackmail

They tell her what to do

And she does it

Biting back the bile

In the back of her throat,

Knowing that they might do

What they said they would do

If she doesn’t do what she’s told,

Panicking each time

Something in the plan goes wrong

Hating the man who always manages

To get in her way

Thinking he will make them do what

What they said they would do

If she can’t do it to him first,

Whole lives put at risk

Because of one stubborn fool

Who has yet to learn

That this is the way

the game is played

And that people like him

Have no business

Getting into the game

If he doesn’t know the rules

Or for that matter

The consequences

Impressions

You always were persistent,

your sure step shiftless in the sand,

inches behind mine,

refusing to fade the way mine do,

the wavering water washing up,

sinking in at the toes,

the deep impression of your life,

always remarked upon,

leaving that satisfied taste of completeness behind,

while I, in constant struggle within myself,

looking for ways to make my name,

a Wall Street broker, a notorious book peddler,

a hustling, rustling bandit of the street,

almost ready to wash your feet

or windshield for your secret,

me, the invisible foot on the sand,

my suit, tie and shimmering shoes

meaningless here among the pixies

and gypsies of your imagination,

like a gull's bloated body

in the low hung clouds,

grey upon grey,

while you, stark,

a white gull with black head laughing,

even at the waves that crush you....

Sea shore letter at six

I wrote to her from the sea shore

that short weekend vacation

when I was six,

a bragging man of inch-high printed letters,

who licked the stamp certain

she would be impressed,

the sea and gulls still aching in me,

the indelible impression of youth

marked upon my soul,

crashing waves and salty air

and broken ship on the reef—

old fishing boat filled with souring fish corpses,

which reeked for weeks,

though to me,

there might have been pirates to battle

or women to save,

swords clashing in frantic glee

before the inevitable Davey Jones,

and for the long ride home,

I imagined her, receiving me like Errol Flynn,

her long five-year-old hair gleaming

like gold from the porch,

small hands grasping my letter on the stairs,

shaking with expectation—

though when I arrived,

there was no one home,

just my letter, stuffed in the mail box marked:

address unknown.