I am in the house and will be
leaving in a few minutes to
take a walk. Not much on my

mind. The sky is clear and
radiantly blue. The world is
in chaos, as usual. I am old

and at some point in the not
too distant future, I will be
dead and gone. It is spring.

That's not a
pencil, it’s a
brontosaurus.

I know I am, but
what are you?

Six out of seven
fabled dwarves
are not happy.

I am sitting on a branch,
near the tree’s top, next to

a Capuchin monkey and
we are watching a man

wrestling an alligator. In
the distance an industrial

truck belches black smoke
as it nearly runs into a

very old man slowly crossing
the intersection. Then the

monkey says, Looks like the
dude’s got the alligator in

a choke hold. And I say,
The old guy barely made

it across the street. Then
the alligator gets free and

scurries away, but gets run
over by the truck. ****, says

the monkey, then, I got a
job, working with a private

investigator. The monkey
peels a banana and hands

me a piece as I ask, Doing
what? The monkey looks me

in the eye and says, Help
solve crimes. I say, Sounds

like a TV show, and the
monkey replies, Yeah, very

much like a television show.
And we watch the old man

very slowly amble down the
street—until he is gone.

The dog howls
as a dark cloud
slowly passes
overhead, then
lays down, curled-
up, tail wagging
waiting for all to
be still and bright.

that's the beauty of attention.

Like everyone in
this place, he’s a
cowboy, riding the
digitized horse, writing

his self-styled myth
with spray paint and
gasoline, a fire
breather, and always

off balance as his
head is seven times
too big for his
body, which, for some

reason, he believes can
be compensated for
by talking very loudly
and continuously, he’s

the sheriff of Main
Street, a seer of
the nonexistent, a
near-sighted marksman,

but in reality, like
most of us, he
is just another version
of a rodeo clown.

The sunrise looks like
something ******

the cat coughed up.
Having not done his

homework all year he
is failing algebra class.

He wakes up in bed,
then falls back asleep.

He’s in the front yard
and can’t find his pants.

The school building is
like a jigsaw puzzle that

is impossible to solve.
The sunrise looks like

something ******.
He wakes up in bed,

then falls back asleep.
Of course he doesn’t

know that he is asleep.
He’s forgotten how to

balance the equation.
The edifice is a puzzle.

Fall into that
hole in the shape
of your body

and keep
falling until
you reach a

silent, empty
space, where words
have lost their

use, and emotions
pass through,
like tourists

and your name
has a hollow
ring to it.

They are on a mountain
at the edge of the world,

on her white parachute
draped on the ground under

the cherry blossom trees,
naked, vulnerable, while

down in the valley the
trees are on fire, even as

the oceans are swelling
and flooding the coasts,

and they feel the fever
in the air, the infection

in the atmosphere, and
as soon as they patch

his balloon and ignite
the flame, it will float

away in the hazy air,
to who knows where.

A ***** martini
in the shape of
a Christmas tree,
a Christmas tree
in the shape of
a cup of coffee,
a cup of coffee
in the shape of
a gun, a gun
in the shape of
a man, a man
in the shape of
a ***** martini.

The Minister Of State
reads the speech
dictated by the toiling

titan of industry,
inventor of the gadget
that everyone needs,

while titan’s wife, the
Baroness, though
talented with an

umbrella and tweezers,
sits idly waiting for a
delivery from the

publicist, who works
into the long night,
crafting the narrative

that all of us fall
into, like the words
in this sentence.

I am the dead
woman slumped
against the shower

wall—don’t know
why, but I simply
stopped breathing,

and the water’s pelting
my face, as the dog
sits, staring at me,

as I recall how much
I hated my job,
all the politics, and

the dog is licking
my face, wondering
when I’m going to

go to the kitchen
and feed her, as my
husband is waking,

expecting his
breakfast to already
be on the table.

Maybe I’m a fraud,
maybe I’m not the
guy who empties the
trash bins, maybe I’m
a theoretical
physicist failing
to piece together
a story of
everything, maybe
my wife is really
dead and I am in
love with a memory,
or maybe I’m the
guy who has a gun
loaded with blanks
ready to fire at
anything that moves.

My little boat and I,
tossed like a juggler’s
eggs, then into the sea,

and as I stagger onto
the beach I see her,
June, my next door  

neighbor who is 95
years old, but somehow
now looks 25, reclining

under the blackest night
sky, as she says, You
survived, the last three

folks went under—and
if you’re going to speak
keep it under 100 syllables,

past that it’s just babbling—
so I sit next to her,
she holds my hand,

my mind goes quiet,
and I can’t think of
anything worth saying.

Now, in the other world,
we are building a bridge,
from one thing to another,

and of course it’s a
metaphor for our
condition, since

this word is broken,
a hell, of our own
making, like most hells,

so, in the other world,
we build our
envisioned bridge

which is as real as
a broken clock, as
tangible as a body

floating face down in a
lake, but now, in this
world that we destroyed

there are no longer any
bridges, so in the other
world we build our way

to a destination
yet to be known,
yet to be reconciled.

I am assembling
a new gray tweed
suit. The plodding,

solitary elephant is
wandering on a dark
road. I am not an I.

Pinocchio is missing
an arm and speeding
in a big truck. I am

an eye that floats
overhead, smaller
than a pin-point,

nothing really.
In the murky
night Pinocchio

hurtles toward the
idle elephant, but
swerves at the last

moment, then I’m
wearing the tweed
suit, even though

it’s missing a
sleeve, and all three
of its ivory buttons.

The drunken shoemaker
falls off his horse late
in the night, and in the
morning awakens to find
all his clothes have been
stolen, except his shoes.

A statuette of Durga,
alluring goddess of

divine destruction
and new creation,

in her sky blue and
cloudy white robes,

on a shelf above the
swirling gray smoke of

a burning unfiltered
cigarette in the

sunny orange ashtray
on the kitchen table-

top the color of the
churning stormy sea.

A fly buzzes
madly around

the room, and
ricochets off the

mirror, then
ricochets off the

window, then
lands on a leaf

in a painting
and it resides

there for the
remainder of its

incredibly brief,
minuscule life.

The man in the
cellar is forging
the books of

history, as the
ghost in the attic
is starting to

realize that he
is dead, and the
piano tuner in

the den is an
international
spy, and the corpse

is in the trunk of
the car in the vermin
ruled alley and the

ghost sees that he
can simply leave
this world, which

he suddenly does
and all of this—
instantly left behind.

There isn’t a
single

soul on
any of

these dark
deserted

streets,
in these

sleeping
homes, in this

vacant
parking lot,

in these
abandoned

stores in
a failed

mall, in
these lifeless

restaurants, and
I don’t know

where I
am or how

to locate
myself on

this dank moon-
less night.

A dot on the far
left side of the page—

that is where I started,
and a dot on the far

right side—where I am
now, and a dot for each

detour that was made,
and when all the dots

are connected the
image formed is of

a wounded man
with one leg, and a

broken crutch, limping
toward the future.

Like a constipated
mule, the old man
limps toward me

saying, The end is
near—the words
falling from his mouth              

like congealed bacon
fat, then the young
woman emerges from

the churning sea—her
auburn hair, alabaster,
almost translucent

naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting
a long shadow—The

world ended long
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the

emerald green great
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean

sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the
tower—figures falling

from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies

smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your

classroom is on the
sixth floor, and as I
open the heavy door

she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds

Please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.