One the eve of hope

I carved a pumpkin
To show support for my candidate.
Though it may seem immature
To introduce politics
Into annual office events,

Isn’t every breath political,
Arguing life over death?

Next week Capmetro will strike
Because they’re not getting their way,
And my way to work
Will be paved with my wife’s worries
That I’ll be hit
If forced to cross the highway.

I tell her that with a name like Braker,
the road I walk is already a highway,
So what’s changed?
We can only hope the long-term
Future plans of the next round of officials
Fix this commuting problem,
That they have learned
Highways kill communities.

Isn’t every job political,
Arguing work over pay?

Election day,
Four days early,
And the people
Snake through the stripmalls
With slithering sneers
Of pro prop 2 supporters,
And those who can’t decide
End up the difference.

That’s why I’m political,
Arguing overtime.

The Bard of Swansea

The bard of Swansea,
Steeped in old lore,
Drank himself to death
When he was two score

He’d break the Welsh bread
Past the angels in his head
And write himself a book
Of lyrics and verse instead.

The man they called Dylan
But not Robert Zimmerman,
The man they called Thomas
Brought tea for the sea.

The mad bard of Swansea
Went on New York tour,
He drank too much whiskey
And then drank some more.

The day he was born
They threw out the verse,
The day he was young
He made up a universe

The man they called Dylan
But not Robert Zimmerman,
The man they called Thomas
Brought me to Swansea.

Before he grew old
And his songs of words waned,
He laid down and died –
The rules had all changed.

One sip in a Swansea hall,
One step down this wave-swept path
“Bewilder ‘em” is all
that’s left on his epitaph.

the sketch

a shaded line
can be illuminating
by adding layers
of surrounding shadow,
notes of a harpsichord
permeating the evening air
peaks of poles at attention,
the masts rendered
with single strokes
of pencil.
drawn in this light,
the shadows fall out of frame
and out on to the floor
that once was a harbor.

Sinisteria II

You want to be noticed?
Walk down Braker Lane at 6pm
and see the yawning maws
in the drive-by manslaughter,
inspire the fumes of auto locomotion
curling the hairs on your arms and throat.

Even the name sounds down-and-out.
Walk the hundred degree mile,
while the seats of passing comfort
trickle change between the cushions
from drive-thru coffee spots,
lending more all the rage to the road.

You want to know why I walk,
now in my mid-thirties, down a dusty path
reserved for the city's transients,
along sidewalks that go nowhere,
islands of development on a stint
considered a no man's land by so many.

Before I answer your nonchalant question
with left-handed verse, teetering on a rant
with gnashed teeth and ill-chosen phrases,
I'd ask each of the drivers passing by
if they'd ever stop if even for a moment
to watch a bee orbit a bluebonnet.

Sinisteria IV

"Hey, you forgot your smokes,"
an elderly man said
pointing at a pack of Winstons
and a lighter,
to the kid who'd gotten
up from his seat
as if he'd forgotten them,
as if this older generation
wanted youth to catch up.
"They're not mine,"
he replied looking slightly
embarrassed at the thought
of smoking.
He left the bus
as the elderly man
changed his seats,
drawn in by habit,
by the lure,
another reminder
of his own youth.
He picked them up
and slid them in his pocket
like so many memories.

On how insects clock a quantum

An earwig runs circles
around a chunk of asphalt,
twitching antennae
like an outerspace robot
who has lost his direction
and gone on the fritz.
This dance goes on round 15 minutes,
spanning the distance of a foot.
It maps this circuit
in fits of sprints
and returns to the spot
where it set off
an eternity ago.