Rock-n-Roll Radio

They sold the radio station
a little more than a week ago,
switched to Christmas music,
and in another week
will reformat to soft jazz.

It's a goddam crime.

I'm not just considering myself.
I'll get my rock-n-roll fix.
Worry not for me, but for the poor
displaced DJ's mourning
the slow demise of rock radio.

I can see them in small rooms
beneath tattered Ramones or
Pink Floyd posters, stubbing out
generic cigarettes while the HiFi
loops the latest by the Black Keys.

Fear not, sullen DJ's, they buried
our station.  I cannot find
the Chili Peppers anywhere on the dial,
but I won't plan the funeral yet.
It may be underground, but it ain't dead.

Angry Christmas Songs

Did I apologize to you
for not being in touch
this past year?

If not, then
I'm sorry for not saying
I'm sorry.

Honestly, it was these
Christmas lights that got me
feeling sappy and apologetic.

You know, the electric blue ones
hung from the eaves
of that house on Cambridge.

If I'd seen you 15 minutes earlier
when The Kinks' "Father Christmas"
was on, I might've

punched you in the face.
So, I guess I'm sorry for that
as well.  I was thinking,

there aren't enough
angry Christmas songs, and
we should get together soon.

In the Glow of My Computer Monitor.

I believe that we have
too much information,
that it has become
as inescapable as
winter cold, or hunger,
that we have become
disfigured as a result,

and furthermore

that even if I returned
to the vast treeless plains
of western Kansas
where I once watched
violent electric storms
on a horizon
hundreds of miles away

I would still be overcome

by the soft glow of a monitor,
deceptively beautiful,
like hunger before a meal,
like clear cold Ohio night.
We are far too ugly
to know this much
about one another.

Finding the Light

Whenever something dark occurs,
it becomes more difficult to find the light.

Today my niece, Jenna, told me that her two friends
said that they didn't like her.  I told her,
but I do, though I knew it wasn't the same.
She is five and smiled, but it was a sad smile.

My friend Emily listens to sad songs every day.
She tells me they are beautiful,
even though they make her cry.

I would like to tell her that I understand, but
I'm not sure that she would believe me.
I have somehow become an old man
and it might seem peculiar if I were to say
colors are more vivid coming out of the darkness.

This week my 98 year old grandmother
lost her 93 year old sister.

I would like to tell my grandma not to worry,
that I love her and believe mortality is relative, that
my love of gardens is because of her influence,
and that of my grandfather on my Mom's side,

but we don't speak of these things.
Maybe I'll just call to talk about the weather
and assume she understands.  Maybe
I will tell her about Jenna and Emily.
I would like to help her find the light.

The Dude is 22.

The dude is 22 and continually pushing
his hair out of his right eye
while simultaneously talking shit.

His chief accomplishments to this point
are a C average, a job
delivering pizzas,

and a perfected belligerence
bordering on sociopathic
that he aims at all authority.

Even if he didn't have acne,
he would not be handsome.  Even so,
the dude thinks highly of himself.

What he lacks in looks and brains
he makes up for in angry sarcasm
and foulmouthed hooliganism.

Many people despise him, but
he shakes it off with heroic
American determination.

Econ 101

With an astute analysis
of lunchroom economics

Annemarie voiced her thesis
in no uncertain terms,

"It is 60 f-ing cents
for a cookie!"

and in doing so
perfectly illustrated

rising commodity costs.

Logical Fallacy

"Woe unto you, ye that are full now!
 for ye shall hunger."  Luke 6:25

I was friends with a guy once who had never known
hunger.  He was very fortunate.
He assumed hungry people were just
too lazy to get up and get food.

We had some drinks one night and
he told me as much, but I tried to explain
46 million Americans live in poverty
including 20 percent of our kids.

As his fingers pushed hair from his face
he had the deliberate look of someone
who needs to dodge facts because they
conflict with their world view.

He took a drink and smiled small.
Elvis Costello sang on the jukebox,
"and I would rather be anywhere else
but here today."  His foot tapped.

In the moment he set his drink
on the faux wood bar I realized
that he would no longer be my friend.
We might smile and nod

as acquaintances do, but
he knew that I knew, and I knew
that he knew that I wasn't buying
his great philosophical leap that

a laziness epidemic creates poverty.

Last Week

On Sunday, my Gemini horoscope
told me this week was lucky.

On Monday, the rain threatened
to stop soaking my backyard.

On Tuesday, my friend Olivia said
she dreamt I'd won the lottery.

The rain stopped, the sky
turned October warm.

On Wednesday, I bought instant tickets
and won 6 bucks.  Thanks Olivia.

On Thursday, I got a paper cut,
but it didn't bleed for long.

Now it's Friday.
Sometimes that's enough.

Skeptic

Outta nowhere
my son yells, "Liar!"
and I realize, startled,
that it's the commercial
with the governor
talking 'bout all the jobs
he's created.

And the kid's right.
The few jobs that've come
weren't brought on the wings
of this governor's policy.

Of course my son
is simply repeating
what he's heard us say,
but I like to think
he's also learning to question
the claims of bullshitting
politicians.

Adam

I thought I saw Adam the other day
in the side mirror of a rusty
blue pick-up truck.  It wasn't him.

Then a flock of blackbirds flew fighting
one another from lawn to treetop.
Their hostility made me feel lonely.

I was going to call you, but all you have
is a cell phone and I don't want to talk
while you're deciding what vegetables

you want on your turkey club
on whole wheat at Subway.
We haven't spoken in months.

I don't blame the vegetables, it's
my hang up.  I don't blame the blackbirds either,
even though they're clearly following me.

They've just arrived next door.
Our cats will take care of them.
Where does Adam live now anyway?

Measuring Success

We played baseball in our front yard
almost every day this summer.

The neighborhood kids blasted shots
down the sidewalk and became heroes.

It was my job to pitch only strikes and chase
hits 2, 3, sometimes 4 driveways down.

We measured our success in bases run, and
our exhaustion in melting popsicles.

Now the summer is nearly gone.
Assessment will become more complex.

Skyline

There is a giant shell of a factory
being constructed near downtown.

At first it was skeletal
with steel beams reaching skyward,

and now it appears they've begun
to bolt on a skin of aluminum sheets.

The factory is several stories tall
and passersby stare and point

as if they cannot recall what
purpose a factory serves.

I watched a man and woman do just that
Saturday at 10:30 am before walking

hand in hand into the bar for a drink.
They too celebrate the coming jobs.

Some People Pray

I saw a group of Americans cheer
the decline in the US credit rating.
I wonder if they bake cakes

for an increase in unemployment.
To hell with the hungry kids (pause for bite of cake)
as long as the President looks bad.

Some people are praying for work.
Others pray for rain.  Still others
pray, and then preach hatred.

There are politicians
in Iowa today
doing all of the above.

I don't go to church anymore.
Forgive me father, at least
I'm not a hate-monger.

Forgive me father, I believe
in the greatest happiness
for the greatest number.

Forgive me father,
I have become
unelectable.

drinks

The northwest corner
of the driveway holds water
after a rainstorm.

Our cats drink there.

They are also known
for delicately drinking
dew drops from our lawn.

I prefer a glass of water.

This summer has been warm
and still, I do not know
what I am missing.

She Sings Above Machines

This overcast morning,
the air wet with humidity
and noise, I mistook
the song of a locust
for machines, as she
struggled to be heard
over the ongoing moan
of air conditioners.

I fear this marks
the onset of some
strange mental illness
where soon I will hear
automobiles where
there is birdsong, and
mistake the cacklng squirrels
for lawnmowers.

Near Midnight

It is nearly midnight
and there are several conversations happening
in my neighborhood.

Across the street to the northwest
a couple seems to argue, until one of them
says "Ronald Reagan," and then there is laughter.

Across the street to the northeast
I hear the crack opening of a beer can and a heavy voice
that grows angrier as others correct him.

I am going to bed.
No one else in this neighborhood
will be up before noon.

Homer Street

If you remove the asphalt
there is brick, and if you
remove those bricks,
there is dirt.  She was there
when the road was dirt
and they filled its holes
with cinders from the furnace.

She and my grandfather,
along with some neighbors
petitioned the city to pave
the road, and they agreed
saying, "Soon, all of the city
streets will be paved."
It seemed unbelievable, she said.

A Note to Jim as He Travels

Jim -

I visited Bobby today in your absence.
When I arrived she was seated
in your rocker in the half light
listening to a selection from Brahms.

As I entered, she stretched,
and then meowed in that hoarse,
but not altogether unwelcoming way.
You know what I mean.

She ate her wet food while
I got fresh water, and then
we sat on the kitchen tile awhile.
I scratched behind her ears,

and we listened to Chopin.
I do believe she is my friend now,
and I will visit again in a few days.
How is Warsaw?  Be well.

Matt

Long Live Libraries

James learned to read this year,
and today he got a library card.

I am not sure he fully understands
that he now has control of the world
of words.  His 7 year old mind has yet
to weigh the importance of this event.

He might use the card to learn
to build a house, or stage a revolution.
Perhaps he'll read about Lincoln or
Henry David Thoreau.

Today, with his card he borrowed
a DVD cartoon of Kipling's mongoose,
and a story about an Elephant and
a Pig.  They are quite hilarious.

When we got home, James proudly
showed his Mom his card, and the
first borrowed items, before asking
if he could go on the computer.

Hi Neighbor.

I had the windows down
and was singing along
to Jimmy Cliff this morning.

The sun was coming up behind me.

It was a beautiful 70 odd degrees,
nice breeze, no worries
going to work morning.

Summer was just around the corner.

I smiled and waved
to a tall old man on Park Ave.
He gave me the stink-eye.

Broken Bricks

I hope that I’m not here

when the last factory falls.

I know the evidence

of our civilization,

spray paint on brick,

dusty novels in public libraries,

sweetly sincere hellos and

I love you’s will all return

to dust again, but

I hope that I’m not there

when Ohio abandons itself, and

West Virginia blasts its last

mountain top, and the final PA

steel mill crumbles into rust.

I hope that I’m here with you

when the last factory falls

and we tell each other stories

of the things we once built,

as the sun suggests

some new growth

in broken bricks.

Trees

The trees in my neighborhood are falling.

I don’t see it as a good sign.  First,

there was a giant oak in Rufus’ backyard,

just south, went down in a windstorm.

Then, a few weeks ago, Bob cut down

a 30 foot pine because it was dropping

more needles this year, then limbs.

Soon the rotting pin oak toward the sunset

will fall by wind or axe and we’ll

hopefully dodge it, but what is inescapable

is the collapse of our forest around us.

Already the sky seems too wide,

almost frightening.  This is not Kansas.

And when that next tree goes, and the sky

splits wide open in all directions,

I will be haunted by a sinking feeling,

or the ghosts of all these trees.

Gamble

Megan gave me a penny.

She said she found it
on the floor heads up.

I have no way of knowing
if she is telling the truth.

I'll take my chances.

Another Spring in the Recession

Green has only begun

to drip from branches.

The air holds a humid chill,

but the birds have begun

to rejoice.

There is baseball on a radio

as workingmen clear the yard.

They’ve recently agreed (again)

to lower their wages, but these days

work is work.

The blue sky encourages

cats to hunt birds, and slowly

they return to form.

A lonely dog chews

his own leg.

A suburban family is going

with hot dogs, beans, and

potato salad for dinner.

It is a decision both seasonal

and economic.

Heroic

We spoke a bit about work, which was safe.

Then we talked about the weather, even safer.

I wanted to tell him he’s a good guy,

a decent human being, and if most people

just tried to be halfway decent, then

we’d have a lot fewer problems

like poverty and hunger and violence.

But I didn’t say anything like that.

I guess because I didn’t want to sound corny

like, well, you never climbed a mountain,

or cured a disease.  You didn’t get rich

and you never were a strong swimmer,

but you’ve always been a decent person.

I was afraid it would come across

that way, and not the way that I intended

which is to say, You’re a decent person,

and so few people really are.  I believe

it’s the greatest thing that we can achieve.

It is heroic, and what I aspire to.

Instead, we spoke a bit about the weather.

There’s rain.  Which is not always unpleasant.

Waiting for the Parking Lot to Become a Forest

There is now
a gravel lot
where my grade school
used to be.

The candy store
is a head shop,
record store sits empty,
and the bowling alley
is a parking lot.

I'm still here though,
a bit older now,
watching pavement
give way to saplings.

Slipped, Forgot

We have slipped into suburbs, into work,

forgot how the light plays through leaves

onto ripples in Black River, that spot

by the old ford, near the piles of quarried stone.

We forgot about your saxophone,

forgot the possibility of revolution,

slipped into parenthood, into life,

into old tree filled neighborhoods,

gone quietly, but for the roaring

of our lawnmowers, having forgotten

about the moon, the world after dark,

raccoons creeping out of shadows.

We forgot about the safety that night affords

and the danger that swings like a fist in a barroom.

We have slipped into worry, into democracy,

forgot the quality of our rage,

forgot tenderness, forgot poetry,

slipped into the soft quiet of early morning,

the sun at dawn, and forgot one another,

forgot the possibility of transcendence.

We Are Smaller

He is wrapped up in warmth,

piled high with blankets.

His right hand holds his stuffed dog,

fingers moving slightly

despite his sleep.

In dreams a little boy

is larger than himself, strong,

conquering that which

would threaten him.

In life he breathes deep

through his mouth,

coughs now and then,

a cold having settled

in the depths of his chest.

When he is sick

he seems smaller, I think.

We are all much smaller

than we tend to believe.

Dang

There is a progression
in the use of foul language
in one's lifetime.

At 3 or 4, my son
responded to laughter
at a family Christmas party
saying, "That's so funny,
dammit."  and it was.

He's a first grader now
and his word of choice is "dang"
as in "Dang, look at this" or
simply "Daaaaaaang."

His conversation is peppered
with the exclamation.  It is a way
to express his budding cool.
and he is.

Eventually he will dive deeper
into filth, but for now he'll
dang his way around, moving slowly
toward an inevitable f-bomb.

Kittens

There is a man at the mall
who sells puppies, kittens,
and ultraconservative
themed T-shirts.

The shirts praise God,
Glenn Beck, and small government,
sometimes all at once.  The puppies
wail like tortured captives.

I wanted to ask the man
about this, but his bandana
and tattooed arms suggested
thinly repressed violence,

while his many silver rings
promised a bloody beating.
I feared for my safety.
I worry about those kittens.

There Is No Justice Here.

One in ten homes are empty
as I drive down my frozen street,
yet the courts will fine a man
a hundred grand for swindling billions.

My car stereo crackling growls,
"All the power's in the hands
of people rich enough to buy it."

They'll have us all in the streets
fighting like dogs over their scraps
and it don't matter if the state house
is in Madison, Columbus, or Newark.

It's working men trading punches
like it once was black and white
'cause if we're fighting one another
we're paying no attention
as we all get robbed blind.

My wipers push the snow aside
and the speakers demand once for all,
"Are you taking over
Or are you taking orders?"

The Complainers

Ellen complains because she thinks no one is listening.

Patty complains to cover up the fact that he is, by far, the most ineffective employee in the billing department.

Sharon complains because those in charge seem to be, in the words of her grandmother, "just nincompoops."

Eddie complains because it passes the time until happy hour.

Keith complains because he believes it to be his patriotic duty.

Marilyn complains because the cafeteria soup is served lukewarm.  Who serves lukewarm soup?  Every goddam day?

Todd complains in order to belittle his coworkers so he can get a leg up on the available promotion to sales director.

Sandy complains because her kids are ungrateful assholes.

Brandon complains because there's nothing else to do.

Natalie complains because she's rich, doesn't need this dead-end job, and thinks it helps her to fit in.

Matt complains because it allows him to tell stories, and drop the occassional f-bomb which, in this crowd, is just fucking funny.

Josh complains because anger is better than loneliness.

Shelly complains to cover up that she is completely hung over after a shameful night soaked in coconut rum.

A Vision in Cleveland Winter

My Dad told me the trucks left for Arizona a few days ago
bearing the necessary materials to begin spring training.

I told him about an article I had read that discussed
the rehabilitation of two key players from surgery last season.

He said the Indians were in talks to acquire a starting pitcher which,
if successful, would go a long way in the manufacture of preseason hope.

I stood at the back window with the phone to my ear,
snow swirling, adding inches to those already fallen,

and as I blinked I swear I saw
green grass and warm sun out there,
my Dad and I along with my son.
I could smell the earth
and a leather mitt,
a red stitched white ball
sailing quietly between us.

Two Books I Found In Basements

Kurt Vonnegut,
Slaughterhouse Five
in a damp cellar
like that of a serial killer
bare bulb lit
Bowling Green, Ohio.
I drank canned beer,
and began an embrace
of pacifism and paranoia.
The world above
engulfed in darkness.

Matsuo Basho,
The Narrow Road
to the Deep North
in a basement converted
beautifully to a library
Boulder, Colorado.
I read some, then stared
at morning sun on the foothills
preparing to devote myself
to meditative travel,
to Rocky Mountain haiku.

Sittin' in a Snow Globe

I was caught looking sad.
I didn't mean for it to happen.

I was in a room with many people.
There were conversations
going on in all directions.

Their words were snow in a globe,
everywhere and nowhere.
I sat very still.

So much had gone
so quickly wrong,
I was thinking about nothing.

That's when the kid came up
and said, You look sad.
The globe shook.

Words had no function.
I smiled as millions of flakes
swirled around us.

Bridge Building

Long before he was able to determine
the distance of grief, or to measure
the weight of well timed words,
my young son came into the kitchen
where I sat on the floor,
head in hands, and he told me,
I'm sorry about your friend, Daddy.
I looked up and thanked him.
We smiled at one another
as the sunlight built a bridge
on the tile between us.

Transition

When he sat down on his skateboard
propped on a curb
near the end of the summer of his 14th year,
the sun had nearly set
behind the rows of suburban homes.

In this golden half-light
his friend Matt passed him
a cool can of beer. 

Looking skyward,
he took a drink, his first,
not realizing that,
though this was a beginning,
it was also an ending.

Last Year's Rock-n-Roll

The left ear is ringing again.
It's not like sleigh bells, the doorbell,
nor a heavy tolling church bell.

It is more like constant high-
pitched feedback, a guitar amp
cranked up and gone wrong.

When I set my beer on the table
by the stage, next to the stacked speakers
at hundreds of shows, over dozens

of years, I failed to consider
this consequence.  If you were put off
by my inattention today,

I apologize.
It's not you, only last year's rock-n-roll
in my head.