their walls pale peach, eggshell
tiny flowered paper in the dining room
wood panels in the den

but then, when the boy's voice changed
and hair began to stubble his face, he painted
his own space

eleven by a dozen feet,
all scarlet as Camara rose  
though the can said,
“Passion Red”  

when daylight shined
on these crimson plains, his mother swore
she saw flickering flames  

the boy told her there was no fire
but to extinguish her ire, he painted again,
a stark white, but in just the right light
she still saw a simpering glow    

off to college he went, a full day
she spent, pressing the roller firm against his walls,
extracting every red drop that remained, until
again in perfect light, she was certain  
she saw imps and fallen angels  
dancing in delight

kayaking, on the same lake
since college, two score before
by the tiny bay ice fishermen swore
was haunted--having lost one
of their own, only last winter

if the dead man's spirit lingered
he hadn't heard or seen it, and the bay,
though small, was deep, calm

he rowed daily to this big cove
a treasure trove of quiet and color
without a house or pier in sight

as the sun was sinking
into the lake one August eve
he heard a hissing from the thick
stands of pine

webbed feet, he did not imagine
could be as treacherous as talons
but the were, and the knobby beak
of this mad mute swan felt like pliers
when it yanked on his ear, ripping
nearly half of it off

it took but one sharp blow
from his oar to thwart the attack
and the giant bird disappeared
into the dusk

in its wake a pool of blood
and pain he had not felt since hot shrapnel
pierced his young shoulder
in that crazy Asian war

the battle lasted
but a few manic moments
as is the case with most wars of the flesh
though long enough to end his silent sojourns
on this still blue glass, now shattered
by flapping limbs of man and beast

his ancestor a coolie
laid the rails many long years  
but returned to Peking
to fight white devils  

this, the tale
passed through the generations
with the jade necklace which
never left his mother's neck

first born son
spawn of two doctors, expectations
were high he would practice
honorable healing arts

early in his years
he fueled their fears, and ire
coming through their sterile door
with bloodied knuckles
black eyes, fat lips

they tried various exorcisms:
confinement in the temple, lashings
and hushed cabals with head healers,
but none could shrink his will

much to their dismay
Stanford rejected him; he landed
at a community college, where he spent
an indolent year, before vanishing

a thousand tears and fears later
the PI revealed what a hundred
billable hours had reaped

the son was so far west
he was east, in a village on the Yangtze
stooped over paddies, his feet firm
in the mire the generations
had yearned to escape

I found you in parks,
camped out in libraries
bus depots

we shared road stories,
****, food, and whatever we had
stuffed in our pants, forbidden
by the man

you came from everywhere
and were going nowhere--except
California

a million dreams after
Steinbeck's hordes plodded west,
desperate to find the fruit

but you were in search
of grapes without the wrath:
there weren't any

you came and went  
some succumbing to the needle
others to the bottle, and more to the winds
which whisked you to another park bench,
another all night diner, in another
dead, gray city

I stuck around,
earned, or stole, greenback dollars
built red brick houses, had children and wives  
and almost forgot your scent

now, mostly when the lights are out,
I add the years of your evaporating biographies
and realize so few of you remain,
to walk our flat earth

3900 light years from earth
a mere 1.2 billion miles across,
makes me wonder who your master is
and what magic it takes to fill
your feeding bowl

I wish I could ****
the kiloparsecs keeping us apart
and see you, unleashed, maybe chasing
Frisbees left by the barking big bang

I hope you don't bite

he wallows in the slop,  
seemingly unable to stop  
alliteration is his biggest sin  
grimly gripping grand and grotesque lines alike
rhythm and rhyme are somewhere  
deep in the heap of crap
he cranks out  

similes are his favorites
but parsimonious as desert dew
when he hunts for one
that's new

metaphors bounce beyond
his reach, on harder ground  
than the pen he shares with hogs
doubtless the domain of dogs  
far bigger than he