Monthly Archives: July 2012

Crossing the Rubicon

Every minute

every second

we are crossing the Rubicon

to march on the future

though once you’re thirty

you hate every birthday

and though we are generals of our own lives

we are not the Emperor

and so we have no control

of our heroes or horses

to get them to pull up

and drink from the river

instead of forging it

cause even though we think we know

what is waiting for us

on the other side

we fear


from nothing to something from




and everything in between

a dream that stays with us

stalking us from midnight to midday

so much so

that even atheists have to admit

they don’t feel its existence

cause if God doesn’t exist

they wouldn’t have to argue against Him

(or Her, or, it, or whatever pronoun or preposition you feel comfortable with)

cause no other group defines themselves by what they don’t believe

I don’t believe in a fourth primary color

doesn’t mean I color myself in its absence

we all get the reds, yellows

we all get the blues

we see yellow and blue giving birth to green

we don’t see a need to define the colors we do not see

just like we can’t walk backwards in time

the blues of the Rubicon don’t run in a straight line

yet still it finds the green sea.


The Death of The Phantom Tag

My new baseball league has too many rules.

Players are not allowed to do any trick plays

like the hidden ball trick

or the phantom tag

our shortstop got warned not to fake a throw back to the pitcher

while swiping at the runner on second

seeing if he could catch him off the bag

I thought it was fair baseball play

if the runner’s dumb enough to fall for it

the runner’s dumb enough to get himself out.

I’ve always defended baseball as a tough, contact sport

by highlighting the runner being able to plow into the catcher

to break up the play and possibly his leg

what would amount to a red card in soccer

is called good base running in baseball.

This afternoon I learned that this, too, has been stricken from the game I love

I was DOA at second base

but still I gotta swipe my legs out to bowl over the second baseman trying to throw over

to first base to complete the double play

and I did just that

sliding in hard

legs out to knock over the second baseman who makes a lousy throw over to first

and the runner beats the throw

and as I trot back to the dugout

the league commissioner is waiting for me

to tell me that I was lucky I didn’t get two outs called for my slide

cause you’re not allowed to slide into players like that

in this league.

But, that’s my play

that’s my baseball

that’s why I always say to anyone who moans about getting bowled over:

play soccer

now I find I’m playing soccer baseball

they’re killing my game

cause I’m a wonderful slider

I’ve mastered the head first slide

the pop up slide

the hook slide

and the take out the second baseman by mauling his legs slide

all parts of the arts of the sport

sports were created to create young warriors

sports were made to make boys into men

baseball is a kids game

but we’re playing it like we’re men afraid to play like boys.

First Time Deja Vu

You ever had deja vu

(didn’t you already ask me this?)

I’m not sure

you tell me

I beg you

to show me a picture of you when you are older

I’m sick of looking at pictures of people when they are younger

always stuck in the now

the promise of the future never fulfilled

no matter how much we watch the watch

and no matter how much the hands wring our wrists

you can’t get blood from a stone

and now is drowned in the tides of time

and the gravity of gravity is that it never gives up

no matter how much it sucks

we are pinned to its whim

and still we learned to fly.

Beauty, Thy Name Is Woman

The science that we leave around

the chemistry we hope gets picked up

in the blink of an eye by the simplest of biology

in the shape of woman

wrapped in earth and sky

yet, it is this woman who illuminates all

with my eye drawn only to her

as she emerges from the surf like Venus

or Ursula Andress in the first Bond movie

the earth and heavens have no chance against a woman like this

and neither do I

as I mumble ‘hi’ as she walks past

to rendez vu with her beach towel

leaving me to write poetry to a woman

whose name I don’t know well enough to spell.

Going Down Swinging

Falling faster than a knuckle ball

my world has stopped spinning

floating on the breeze

daring somebody to hit it

or at least take a swing at it

knock me out of the park

I have no connection to the pitcher once I’m out of his hands

sure, he gripped me and tossed me out into the world as a knuckle ball

but that doesn’t mean I have to like it

I always wanted to be a fastball

to feel the exhilaration of speed

whipping past the flailing bat

for strike three

but if you hit me, fine

I like traveling

send me to left field

hit me into the bleachers

so I can make some kid’s day

assuming he catches me

and doesn’t get caught in the eye by the home run

if he does, I’ll blame you, the batter

not me, the pitch

cause I didn’t choose to get hit

I’m just following

where the swing takes me

so if you crush me

I’ll go anywhere you want to go.

When The Buddha Learned To Surf

What’s the one thing you don’t know that you most want to know?

That’s a key question for me

out of all secrets hiding under the rocks of outer space

what is the one you most want to turn over?

For me this question is as constant as Niagara Falls

flowing from my moods and needs

right now, I guess my one question would be:

what’s next?

I guess this is what’s next

sitting here writing these words

you reading them now

is literally what’s next since I asked my one question to the universe

it’s not really the answer I was hoping for

but, it’s an honest answer

though hardly profound

I’m throwing rocks down black holes over here

listening for the splash

I feel like I’ve entered the Afterlife before

and it just spat me back out

body surfing the milky way

souls playing upon the tide pools of stars.


All colors

jump out at me

from behind bushes



and I can’t look at a Monet

without going blind

cause all colors combined

go white

I get dizzy

when all is calm

in the eye of the storm

painted by a blind man

named Monet

nose pressed against a canvass he cannot see

Impressionist becomes an Abstract reality

Beethoven was deaf

but he could still hear the Ninth Symphony

enough to write it down

proving genius

comes from beyond the senses

proving the existence

of the creator of genius

who I know isn’t me

though I don’t know

if He’s he or she

or anything in between

could reality have been so lonely that it made up me

and all my imaginary friends

a universe without end

cause it keeps on going

reinventing itself

like the winds and the tides can’t keep still

even asleep we day dream of stars

like how we care for things that are so far

before his sight turned to dust

Monet would rent a second floor room across from the Cathedral

and set up a dozen different canvasses

one for each hour of day light

and chase the sun around the room

from one canvass to the next

till night spread like a murder of crows across the night’s sky

this same night that crept deeper and deeper

into his sight

till he could only feel the water lilies

as his eyesight grew dimmer and dimmer

Monet got closer and closer to the canvass

until he stepped right

through the spectrum of his inspiration

to find the fourth primary color

expanding his palette by the width of infinity

finally Monet finds he can paint blindness

in subtler shades of black

and brighter grades of whites

that all look alike on this side of the canvass.