With a twirl to tom-toms

and a nod to peace,

hordes became quiet

and forgot they were animals,

pretending they were floating

above it all

just for a moment,

and though it will be

forever denied,

it was a beautiful show

of quasi-spirit.

There was the day in Tower Records

in South Philly, the trip to the shore

on a late winter afternoon, and the time

I let go in a car with a song that wasn’t mine.

They’re part of the little hell

I carry with me; reminders of my deep

and lasting inadequacies.

Sometimes I pretend they’re not there.

Mostly, it hurts to be human.

seventeen yellow nubs

pressing upward into air

into an inhalation of lovers

plucking at afternoon;

soft blue

resting, open petals

on breeze

on sunlight;

rhythm of sideways wind

nodding to offbeat clouds

The glare from the rim of my glasses

makes me see things that aren’t there,

often frightening shadows

or cartoon villains lurking about.

Hello, boa. Greetings, Snidely.

I hold on to daydreams, though

it’s not the safest habit for my psyche,

what with false warmth

and promises that will never bloom.

I read and read and read, hoping

to find a fragment of the divine

amongst flawed humanity.

I prefer modern poetry, mystery, and

19th century British explorer biographies.

Notes in the margins of “Paterson”

make me think there’s someone

out there who doesn’t believe in fairies.

Every time someone writes, there’s a trail

of comet dust that tastes of childhood.

I lap it up and sparkle from the inside.

The rise tasted of sweat

and grass and exhaust.

We floated through city streets

exhaling on the downslopes.

Wherever we went,

we were already gone.