White Boxing Gloves

I have watched that couple dancing 
in the ballroom of my mind
since January
It is now April
and I am cold
and feeling old
and tired of battles with no end

I wish I could kiss the cheek of 
each young colleague  
holding on too tight 
in the academic's dance of anger 
and transmit with that brush of lips
to sweet flesh burning with rage
the patience and compassion
I have for each of them
Their souls deep inside
surely must yearn for this

But NO, the fires of betrayal
and flaming towers of deceit
have come crashing upon their
stubborn heads
and no one rests at all when dreams 
of vicious gossip are what we 
take to bed.

The clock chimes 
it's a new part of the day
I want to put these fiery memories
and the hundreds of words in screaming 
e-mails of argumentation
into a cool metal box
stuff it in a drawer and head
for that thousand plus mile journey home

My tired body
and my exhausted soul know quite 
well that the wisdom of the old is built upon 
the crumbling waves of 
youth who run to us 
for succor and support

But here 
discouraged by my 
unwillingness to take sides
they avoid taking the different road
and careen backwards into 
an enduring petty war
on the institutional dance floor 
competing for the prize of 
most stubborn
unprofessional and uncouth. 

Presidential Pancakes

The men in suits 
on this newest rat race
for President
are being covered nonstop 
by corporate media
the same people 
who now want to shut down
the discourse of freedom on
the internet
yes they do
they pay lobbyists 
no wonder I can't stand
the newest social media networks
it's either all about
marketing or being marketed
You begin to get cynical at my age
and focus instead on how
good the pancakes 
with butter were this morning. 

February 2012

In the Pit

Bitterness drenched my pajama clad body
through the night
No, it ran through
my veins and oozed from my pores
as I slept
coursing up and down 
the length of my restless leg syndrome
concocting nightmares for my REM hours of
tortured sleep
where I confronted a witch with a suit
and her starched black hair
a lesbian defrocked nun 
who just might be threatened by me
I'm like the hunted Dorothy
dreamily searching for a pair of 
cinnamon red shoes
the symbol of my youth
and naive enthusiasm and hope
Now I spit out the bile of reality
and taste an acid deception
from them
the hiring committee
from me
the reluctant candidate
pondering the question
where do I go from here? 

I trek a wilderness of constantly dashed hopes
seeking protection from the law's ugliest creation
its teachers and interpreter puppets and 
power hungry souls
I cannot escape the shining light of 
awareness that my past will continue to haunt me
and set traps of delusion
in the earthen floor

Oh Madre Tierra 
swallow me up 
and the feelings of this 
job hunting despair. 

Chicago, March 2000 (I didn't get the job). 

That First Love

I remember when you sat
at the desk at 5am or so
and I half asleep looked over
at the furiousness of your pace
with pen in hand
writing down every feeling thought image
desire and dream that came
rushing gushing out from the
deep waters of your soul
up to your brain heart and then
through your poet's hands
and I was awakened by that spirit
that could not be contained
that I did not appreciate
and looked upon with disdain
and now thirty years later or so
I reach out to your memory
and wonder where you are
and what happened to that brilliant
star in the sky that I knew your mind to be
and I wonder if you are even still alive
and if you even remember me
and if you ever forgave me
for joining hands with you on a path
we were destined not to complete
and for loving you ever so deeply
so richly and then so
cruelly harshly
letting you go.

February 2000
Chicago

Breakfast at the Courtyard

The timer beeped loudly
as she ran out the serving kitchen
light brown ponytail
the color of the waffles I ordered
as a dishtowel on her arm
moves
swinging and swishing
against her narrow hips
a motion of legs and arms
for a marathon runner
but here at work
only in motion alongside
thick well tread shoes
marking her even path
the wearing down of another morning
for this waitress whose smile
is just part of the task
to ensure a bit of a tip
for the thinly dimed labor
of the Missouri working class.

June 2007 on the way to Austin

Born in California

A cluster of cacti rest on
this dew laden porch
atop Oakland hills
toppling the ocean's edge

San Francisco and stories
of Grandpa's youthful
adventure to these waters
first vistas on my mind
wondering about the moment
he decided to marry
to always talk about and remember
California

words passed on to a wife
and then to a son
who one day left a Mexican village
as a young man
as other
migrants do
and in time brought the widow
and the sister who another day
met and married my father
and had me in California.

Empty Head

Empty head got out of bed
so grumpy she 
could not see
She grumbled  reaching
for support 
bumping into the cat
on the way for a pee

The anticipated interview  
canopied the bed
words tossed about
and missing the empty head
rolling about like unpolished rocks
gathered for grinding 
in a gem artist's shed

What is the purpose of my life?
said empty head
Nothing 
replied the emptiest corner
of her addled brain
Nothing is right
and Nothing is wrong 
Only nightmares
make this night so long 

Cover the dread
and snuggle in the sheets
awaken later with a normal
bedhead 
refreshed m'dear 
even if a bit unsteady 
for suiting up and hitting the streets.