"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



On my way home to write a poem about  the sword  (it’s not

sward  it’s sword  father bellowed)  I see a one-legged woman

get into a car  alone   Driver’s seat dexterity enters psyche   It is

-23   Hunks of ice floes  pepper city streets   She smiles ferociously

+walks at a clip  among dead eyed boxing day refugees


Yesterday I talked with a young friend about the sword he’d received

at 18   A full blown Jedhi number  glinting   Envy ricocheted   His 10 yr.

old brother + me  sobbed pitifully   I too coveted his weapon   The things

one would do with a sward  are different at 10  than at 60


Though the woman now driving home  foot frantically moving  gas to brake

to gas  brake brake  knows the sword intimately   While we sword coveters

day dream of jousting infamy   With dragons  not surgeons   But still  a sword

is a useful instrument  Perhaps living by the pen is for pussies  while growing

old is decidedly not


For at the start of each decade  there is a slicing away  of unformed forms  of

oneself    A cleansing of what has been festering  if one is lucky    Otherwise

Ebeneezer-like  drag it around for eternity   Rattling chains in living rooms of

friends    That obsessional knot  the one you cannot untie   Pick away as you

might  with fingers grown thick+arthritic


At 10: back the bully Keith into a corner  impress upon him which bitch rules

He who sucker punched you on the way home from school   At 20: cut away

dreams  in fact hack them quickly  It hurts less?  At 30: carve your initials into

clouds hanging upon peaks at Big Sur   Hungry for conversion of new dreams

into  as yet un-hacked reality


Though you begin to see  there is a certain symmetry to all this foreplay   Carve

away the fluffy stuff  chop the dross into one inch cubes  +the next decade appears

All pink +baby’s cheek   Until it begins to dawn that no sword will save you    40’s

50’s   60’s  emerge   You learn to live by your wiles+your wits  or not    No need for

that sharp flirty ego    All dressed up with no place to go


Now you know what Jung actually meant after his NDE  when he said: you won’t

need your little worker bee  Where you are going  the dead will hang on your every

word    There you will be a rock star refugee  newly born   Same as when you arrived

here  newly born  +they hung on your every word    Rock star in a birthday suit    And

smart    Don’t ask




Winter 2017

…here’s to poems filled with daffodils + sunshine as requested by most readers..

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