LA burns, smoke blackens sky,
people flee and abandon cars,
90 and 100 mile an hour winds
feed and fan the flames, people
losing everything, even being
rich, or famous cannot save their
big homes and life's possessions.
Someplace in that expanding,
raging inferno my son, an Oregon
Fire Chief leads 300 Firefighters
and their 75 engines and water tenders
over 900 miles south into the fire storm.
Along with firefighters from other
states. Mutual support needed & rendered.

One of my son's firemen is his own son,
and my 21year old rookie grandson
with a little over one year on the job.
His seasoned father has fought many
battles with all kinds of fires, he set to
retire in May after 30 years on the job.
He has seen it all, with never a scratch
or a "singe", but my grandson has never
experienced anything of this magnitude,
being one of a 4-man truck crew battling
side by side in the belly of a raging beast.

All these 30 years I've worried for my son's
safety, now it starts anew, for our boy barely
a man that now walks in his father's shoes.

I will not sleep well until they are all
home safely. I grieve for the victims
of this awful tragedy.

1:12:25 9:20am nyc

Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended


feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly

all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty

so,
Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being?

looking around this empty room right now,
I’ve come to accept that the gig is up;
the party’s over, the lights are off
and everyone’s gone home:
the music here is quiet and tame
the basement echoes in phantom laughter
the window panes are no longer broken
the pyramids of beer cans have crumbled
the late nights have turned into early mornings
the dancing girls have turned into career women
and I had it good for a while, maybe too good;
shooting dice and rolling sevens and elevens
but now everything comes up snake-eyes.
I finally understood that the foundations of people
were more unstable than water and
less faithful than a Rush St. ******.
friendships and other relationships
sank faster than a mafia ****** weapon
(maybe that’s why they call them “ships”)
but as the aging hours of time came
crashing through like lightning:
I found love when love was unkind
I found hate when hate was merciless
I found people and stubbed them out like cigarettes
where by and by, it all turns to ash,
just mounds and mounds of ash,
windswept by gentle persuasion
and now they’re buried in their shrink-wrapped lives;
dropping kids off at soccer practice, attending PTA meetings,
hosting chili cook-offs, yelling at football games,
disgusted with Tuesday’s, bowling on Wednesdays,
pretending everyone’s doing fine and living quite well
while I am left here with myself
and this eerie moment
of reflection, now realizing:
it’s all gone.

looking around this empty room right now,
I’ve come to accept that the gig is up;
the party’s over, the lights are off
and everyone’s gone home:
the music here is quiet and tame
the basement echoes in phantom laughter
the window panes are no longer broken
the pyramids of beer cans have crumbled
the late nights have turned into early mornings
the dancing girls have turned into career women
and I had it good for a while, maybe too good;
shooting dice and rolling sevens and elevens
but now everything comes up snake-eyes.
I finally understood that the foundations of people
were more unstable than water and
less faithful than a Rush St. ******.
friendships and other relationships
sank faster than a mafia ****** weapon
(maybe that’s why they call them “ships”)
but as the aging hours of time came
crashing through like lightning:
I found love when love was unkind
I found hate when hate was merciless
I found people and stubbed them out like cigarettes
where by and by, it all turns to ash,
just mounds and mounds of ash,
windswept by gentle persuasion
and now they’re buried in their shrink-wrapped lives;
dropping kids off at soccer practice, attending PTA meetings,
hosting chili cook-offs, yelling at football games,
disgusted with Tuesday’s, bowling on Wednesdays,
pretending everyone’s doing fine and living quite well
while I am left here with myself
and this eerie moment
of reflection, now realizing:
it’s all gone.

a ;
a .
a ?
some - – —
an ‘
some ( )
a ,
an _
a few ‘ ’ " "
the rare *
the gaping ...
some [ ]
some { }
some !!!
and a healthy :

there you go,
you can write a poem now.

I just woke up and—
It’s cold, and I’m tired.
Standing at the bus stop with my neighbors,
my bag heavier than my body,
my head heavier than my bag.

The textbook in my hand lists my exams,
Kingdoms I can’t classify and processes I can’t explain.

The bus driver lives around the corner.
We hear his engine start,
the grumble of morning.
He pulls out,
backs up,
and rolls toward us.

We climb in.
Seats creak.
Heat hums, just barely.

I open the book,
but the letters won’t stay still.

I glance up—
and the sky hits me.

Pastel.
Not pink, not purple—something between.
And it’s almost as if you can smell it—
it smells like—

Like something good.
Not candy.
Not flowers.
Like air after rain, but sweeter—
cleaner.

The sky just exhaled
and the world paused
to breathe it in.

I stare.
Busmates probably think I’m twelve,
staring out the window like I’ve never seen clouds.

But that sky—

It knocks the tired out of my bones.
Cuts through the fog in my chest.
Wipes out the weight of what-ifs and what-nows.

It feels holy, almost.
Not church holy,
but the kind that sneaks up on you
when you don’t believe in much.

I keep looking,
like maybe if I stare long enough,
I’ll stay awake.

And for a moment,
I don’t care about the test,
or the clock,
or the day.

For a moment,
I believe that something out there
is still worth watching.

Why do we call it a heat wave?
No one is saying hello or goodbye,
The heat stifles; we are immovable.
It would be grave if we waved, ******* all energy as we try.