ANGRY POEM

 

I am wringing my hands

until they bleed,

blasting my

stereo

until every ghost

in the city

complains to

the cops,

I am asserting

my right to

not care a speck

about what gets wrecked

or pecked to death

under inspection

as I scream

at the traffic

that passed this

corner a day ago,

large old men

in tights

and bandanas

tear off their tee shirts

on a stage that

is slippery with drool,

suddenly every

kind word is a crime

only the gallows

can forgive.

THE HARDER WE TRY

A shelf full of 

antique clocks 

that have no 

big or little hands.

Day and night 

follow one

another even as

our chatter and

toys take us 

out of the actual

moment we're in.

A drawer full

of empty Scotch tape dispensers,

rubber bands of many colors,

paper clips 

bent out of shape

to retrieve small things

and hold other things together,

many dead batteries,

lots of flip top phones

from a more promising part of the century,

matches from jazz clubs.

The harder 

we try,

the more trying it gets.

Jill, I can hear 

you laughing

as I say these things,

there was nothing

on my keychain

that could start the car,

each key

was to doors

in far away zip codes.

A watch

with no little or big hand

on the dial

will not stop the 

hair from falling out,

the eyesight failing

or the new pains

that emerge each

week , regular as subscriptions.