Faulty Youth

At the age of 24
I may not have paused
to peer down the sunlit throat
of a blue morning glory, or smile
at the old couple on the bench
holding hands as if it were an answer.
I had no time
or place for a garden
and can’t tell you I cared
where my spinach came from—
did I even eat greens back then?
I did not have enough
money or conscience to donate to
ARF or the rain forests, and
if I saw a young woman sobbing
behind the wheel of her car
it would not have haunted me for days.
Was I grateful in my twenties?
“For what?” I would have answered.

Still, I curl up on my sofa now and then
and paw through memories
of my faulty youth,
looking for the days I soared,
certain I could fly.

The Stranger Upstairs

Spooky, isn’t it,
when you pull into your driveway
and realize you don’t remember the trip,
not one light or turn or stop sign.
While you argued with yourself, heedless to hazards,
your mind, loyal as a dog, brought you home.

For something we carry around every day,
we don’t know much about the brain.
How can a wad of lumpy grey tissue
run the show?
Do our fears and memories live in its folds?
When we sleep,
how can that cold blackness inside our skulls
create the smell of bacon,
a sun-spangled lake,
an orgasm?
How are we fooled night after night,
dropped inside a carnival world,
made to do unspeakable things?
For whose amusement do we perform?

“Where are my glasses?” we say to ourselves,
as if we are speaking to someone else,
a steadfast companion forged at birth.

Just a little bigger
than two clenched fists,
the brain is a riot of neurons:
100 billion twitchy cells,
each one connected
to thousands of others
in a tireless bombardment
of electricity and chemicals.

I picture it as a city.
A crisscross of streets
with lights and signs
controlling the traffic,
some roads well worn,
others unknown;
one ways that limit us,
dead ends that stop us.
There are places we frequent,
shadowy neighborhoods we avoid,
here and there
a rousing new enterprise.

Aim for the horizon
or stay on the tracks—
it’s your life,
at least for a while,
until all the streets
begin to look strange,
one after another
going dark and quiet,
leaving you stranded
in perfect stillness.
Home at last.

Of Burgers And Barrooms

As one of the contributors (“The Side Bar”), I am pleased to announce the upcoming publication of Main Street Rag’s Of Burgers and Barrooms. This exuberant collection of prose and poetry, featuring 140 authors,  encompasses the hilarious and the heartbreaking in a delightful exploration of bars and fast food restaurants. Please follow the link to MSR’s online bookstore page where Of Burgers and Barrooms can be purchased at a generous discount prior to publication.

Main Street Rag Publishing Company has been publishing our print magazine, The Main Street Rag, uninterrupted since 1996. Among its features are poetry, short fiction, photography, essays, interviews, reviews, and commentary.”

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