Saturday, June 30, 2012


Locker rooms reek of sneakers
and sweat socks, but
band rooms have their scent
as well. Brass and spit,
plush cases marked
with cork grease or valve oil,
dry cleaned uniforms
never quite as sanitized
as they pretend.

The sniff in the nostrils
is like a reed on the tongue
of New Orleans jazz,
the touch of mouth piece
and lips, nubs of the ball
on the dribblers digits,
the liturgist's sacrament.

Thursday, June 28, 2012


Brass latches close.
            Forbidden they say
                        in the finality

of their clasp. The secrets
            inside pass beyond
                        the present

to the dust-laden future.
            Prying fingers
                        will decode

the language of privacy
            assigning errant

Wednesday, June 27, 2012


Glass cabinets hide their treasures
behind transparency, deceptive
they are like Poe's letter,
concealed by presence
rather than absence.

They deny the reality of dust
motes in the gaze
of a hundred eyes peering
through refractions
that presume imagination.

The minds behind the eyes
draw the stories they choose
from the images they think
they see, figments of a world
remote, yet intimate.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Grabbing those Golden Stars

Reaching in was always the problem.
Courage rested between beak
and slender arm. That hen never
wanted me to take what was hers,
and she'd defend the laying box
she believed to protect fantasy
chicks she saw in her beady eyes.

But I was an enthusiastic adversary
knowing new shoes for school
depended on the eggs my mother
sold in town. Reaching in hands
learn survival and acquisition
on the way to caregiving,
and the displacement of bias.

Monday, June 25, 2012


When her brush stroked
those fat cheeks, chubby hands,
she could not know
that Goebel would give
her iconic images form.

How would a novitiate
know that her concepts
would draw Nazi wrath
or carry global hope?

The coin tossed in the air,
lingers in liminal space
before its called, destiny
distended above the heads
and tails of probability.

The Merry Wanderer grips
his satchel and walks on.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

The Hunt

Lanterns almost white
against the blackness of the night,
carbide hissing, igniting
the burn of youthful desire.
Boys like miners thread
their way through the dense
undergrowth, listening
to the distant bay of hounds.

Raccoons scurry from tree
to tree, testing the dense foliage.
Climbing high, they hear danger
in canine cries, and their hearts
beat against the sudden stillness
of the night. The forest sniffs
acetylene burning and knows
its vulnerability as boots

crackle across the leaf-laid pattern
of the flooring. The imminence
of death drips against the earth's
elements, and life trembles
as the dogs move in to tree
their prey. A rifle cracks and the thump
of furred life descends in the false light
of reflected lamps and panting boys.