Monthly Archives: March 2013

Broken Sun Dials

Patterns scattered like Pangaea

broken like grammar across the Earth

we’re lucky we can share any thing at all

even in engineering or poetry

we’ve failed to build a bridge across the Atlantic

while our expression of love is wider than our vocabulary

even this feeling though fleeting could grow

into something so meaningful I would never know

so I go through life thinking I was drinking water down

while water was wine and all opposites rhyme

and I’m drunk on time

sucking on a lime and only euphemism is understood

and not even the shadows could tell time

while looking at old photos

I see new signs

how we are kissing good bye

how you hold me

a couple feet away

your smile meanders south

more of a frown

than mouthing

I love you

though I see how I hug you

I am trying to be one with you

though you pull your hips back toward you

and I’m making love to the sky

though I swear I felt you there

four years from here

I remember this tenth of a second intimately

that afternoon we fought about hanging underwear

outside on your clothesline

of course we weren’t fighting over clothes hangers

when we pretended we were

then fast forward two hours later

and there we are being photographed by a stranger

and here tonight four years later

I take a sip of my Italian wine

and think of you in Florence

home of the Renaissance

and toast our memory

wherever it may be.

God Put The Moon Where The Sun Don’t Shine

Waves floating over the ocean

are oblivious to the currents beneath the sea

or the moon



are needing that number after infinity

to see

that even infinity is expanding

while nothing compares to nothing

though did we ever see nothing in the first place?

And why this need for any sense of reality at all?

What makes the mind scratch for patterns in the eye of chaos?

Drawing on mythology and constellations is our grammar

to declare

we know nothing

though we’re too smart to know something

cause we’ve got a name for everything

even little breaks of light

a million years sleeping

are still creeping

light speeding fleeting

through an endless ocean of night

giving the moon its glow

and the earth its sight.

My Haiku Says Too Much

Playing in the lights

performing blind I must feel

my way to laughter.


Beethoven was deaf

when he heard his greatest work

he called Ode To Joy.


The figure skater

always gets up from a fall

though he cannot win.


Wish I was as smart

as I think I am dreaming

waking to these thoughts.


We open our eyes

though we hope to die asleep

this is the dream world.


Bombing In Germany

We adapt or we die

in comedy and in tragedy

we must adjust old jokes to new audiences

in this no man’s land of stand up comedy

that kills live

where I might only middle

or worse, die

by a crowd of a thousand Germans

who think their English is up to snuff

(an idiom they use frequently)

to have hired me as their comedy Emcee

and I’m bombing because no one understands me

or my double meanings

to words such as: French, duck, jerk, get, make, take, put, go, saurerkraut

and ultimately it’s my fault

cause it’s my job to make these people laugh

so I need to size my audience up fast

and hit them with punchlines they’ll get

I think of Chaplin

and think to go physical

silence resonates loudest

for a joke to be universal

problem is I’m outta shape

so if I go physical

I’m liable to hurt myself

funny how funny is based on pain

cause no one laughs at the man standing up

but if I trip over this microphone chord and fall down

I’m bound to get some sort of reaction

and because the pain of failing is greater than the pain of falling

I trip over this microphone chord and wipe out on stage

and pick up my first laugh in Berlin.

God Plays Peek-A-Boo With The Universe

And every time you read you see

these papery thoughts framed by this hurricane

as this paper rises above this street

weightless and helpless in the wind

pass my apartment window

I can’t read what’s written on the sheets

so, if I write of them

they will be mine

and become these words

defined by these lines

that sometimes punch

and sometimes rhyme

proving we can always make something from nothing

if we just throw black ink on a blank canvass blind

whatever you see is you

and whatever you don’t see

sees you.

A Light Lunch of Haiku

The surf weds the sand

they love, then withdraw

wet with memory.


Your once bright spirit

I drink like fire water

from an empty glass.


Light gives in to night

they make love in the sunset

then the birth of stars.


The night is alight

to the tune of fireworks

dancing cha cha cha.


How brave is first light

to break through the night’s fortress

and set free the dawn.


Punching Up Poetry

I think

all the thoughts

I could ever think

are right here on this keyboard

disguised from Q to M and A to Z

and everything in between makes up everything

just gotta open my heart, open my hands and punch the right buttons

cause if I type with my fists

I’ll only punch out: ioijijzjzx dskjrfijrofgkpo ,mscjijook

which might have a chance to be poetic in Icelandic

meanwhile back in English ioijijzjzx dskjrfijrofgkpo ,mscjijook

gives poetry a black eye.

Here, let me type faster so you can read faster

there, how’s that for clarity?

This metamorphosis from thought to written word

is the flight path from the soul to the hand

when words have weight

even if weighed in a drop of ink

this ink has height and length

even abstract art has a frame

and either I’m drunk

or the world is out of focus

and I’m writing in the dark

blinded by the computer screen

going towards the light

with the faith

someone else will see me more clearly than I see me

right now

wherever this now may be

when there’s this now how your eyes mix us all together.

Now you have to go

cause I must come

to an end

and though I’ll miss you like crazy

I know that the memory of your eyes feeding me these lines

is worth all the pain

of all the words I’ll wish I’d written.

The Tragedy of Beauty

It’s the ephemeral sensitivity of the ice

that gives it its true beauty

the tragedy of each sunset silenced by night

these ice wrought sculptures bleed to death in this March evening

as chunks of castles and necks of swans come crashing


shattering to sidewalk

scattering like stars.

Soon puddles will drown entire galaxies.

The cruelty of Spring.

Defining Infinity

If the universe is finite

then we would get through it eventually.

If the universe is finite

then the sound of an approaching car

would sound the same as

a car speeding away.

If the Universe is infinite then the entire sky at night would be bright

about as bright as the sun

the further you look out into space, the more stars there would be

in any direction you would eventually see a star

proving science can prove anything

and I know I am the exception to the rule, unless the rule is there are no exceptions

while philosophy decrees that stars are not above us

though we’re forced by a lack of vision to flip the earth upside down

and look up to the stars

and we see as far as they let us

our spirits wishing to return to the dust from which we were wrought


this body

to be haunted by a ghost we call a soul

who knows where we came from

even though our bodies are so near sighted

we can only see as far as the stars.

The Magic of Reality

I was five years old when I found out there was no Santa Claus

my sister and I asked mom point blank:

Is there a Santa Claus?

Then we realized the gravity of the question so we asked:

Wait! Wait! If there’s no Santa, do we still get presents?

Why do we feel the need to lie to kids about Christmas?

For the magic of Christmas?

Jesus Christ is the magic of Christmas!

Check it:

his virgin birth was announced by angels

he grows up to walk on water,

turns water into wine,

comes back from the dead,

biggest comeback in the history of history…

what’s Santa got?

Some fat old factory worker

some slave driver factory boss

bossing around his little minions, the other elves

making them work even on Christmas

Jesus didn’t manufacture his miracles in a factory

He could do them with his mind

yet we sit the kids on Santa’s knee to confess what they want for Christmas

and we keep the lie going till the kids are nine, ten, twelve years old when we tell them:

Ok, you’re old enough to learn the truth: everything you know is a lie.

And we wonder why we have trust issues

raised to believe in elves who slave their entire lives making presents for us

what for, our imagination?

Reality is inspiring, hell, it inspired this

lamenting on all the time and money spent on Santa Claus parades

watching Santa movies, reading Santa books

we should be opening up a map with our kids and teaching them about the world

I asked my fourteen year old nephew last week: what’s the largest continent?

He said: Mexico.

And in a room full of fourteen year olds, none knew

one kid said: Hong Kong

and another corrected him: It’s King Kong, you idiot!

We did this to these children

we have failed them in their education

cause, though, in a room full of fourteen and fifteen year olds,

none knew enough to say: Asia

however, all could name all eight of Santa’s reindeer.