A Summer Fine Day

Softly he alights on the wide oak branch, balancing carefully.
He peers at the group of chickadees in front of him,
Hopping slowly over to his betters,
Hoping to find a touch of certainty.
Hogwarts spots him, spreads his wing,
Bounces on his spindly legs twice.
"Young one, so good to see a
Bundle of fluff not yet flying."
He stands awkwardly, scratches his chest with his beak.
He notices his plumage lacks the black-white contrast
Of those who are older, wiser, and
Inevitably wanting to teach him,
The not-yet-having-done-anything.
"I just want to fly", he says.
Looks he over the horizon, beyond clouds and wind,
At the great forest, caught in a heavy summer heat.
The green leaves stretch out in every direction,
A maze of interlocking and shifting perplexity.
The Others stand back and stare, smirk quietly,
Enjoying the moment of superiority, of haughty
Glances. Ended only by the guffaw of Hogwarts;
Epic man, his black head plumage almost gray,
Having fathered many chicks, found many nests,
Traveled to the winter resting pond--
Fought bravely the howling jet stream to lead his birds onward.
"You," barks Hogwarts, "Better stay on this branch."
"Its only a thin green strip of wood--but its safe.
"You hop off this ledge--and you'll fall through the floor
"Of this forest--of everything you can see--and never come
"Back again. Bid your cherished dreams, your tastiest maggots,
"Your splendid nest of bent twigs, your fondest thoughts of your mother--
"And even--fly!--hah, you will still probably die."
Young bird that he was, he stopped and stared, up and down Hogwarts.
Then he opened his wings as the Others watched, muttering,
Scared, realizing that it was not what they wanted, rather, to hold him
Still, not letting him flee, keep the alive under the foot of the dead,
The dead in the soul. One hop--and he was off on the thermals--soaring through
A joyful congregation of beeches, hobnobbing with their friends the maples,
Cheering him on--"Fly on! You weren't born to die".
As he turned and watched the Others quickly speed out of sight,
His old world, forever lost and vanishing, he realized that one idea
Could never be let go of: whoever made this; it was not for him.
It could not be owned by any living thing.

Death Talked to Mr. Ackinsaw

Blood poured on top of empty sweat, dripping.
Man covered in dirty blankets, eyes listening.
Don't know why he hugged the blanket, gripping.
I saw the concerned dark shadow, blankly staring.
Wish I didn't have to see this--trouble forgetting.
Odor of spoiled wild flowers scattered, unsettling.
Their eyes meet, flutter, dart away, threatening.
Mr. Ackinsaw's chest opens as he watches, trembling.
The creature extends a firm hand, welcoming.
Memory of last year's 4th of July flood in, startling.
Vivid images of an open grill with flames, glowing.
The patient opens his mouth, aghast, barely breathing.
Children dance around the bedside, laughing.
A warm breeze peels away the white walls, cleaning.
Sunlight lights up Ackinsaw's wisps of hair, blessing.
A bold sparrow coasts through the air, dancing.
"Away," says that black one--angrily swiping.
"Redemption?" asks Ackinsaw, hesitantly nodding.
"What is surface is only dust", shadow says, unmoving.
In the old man's hand he grasps a butterfly, loving.
Pats he the head of his oldest child, reliving.
Anger pours inside his chest, reviving.
Wrinkles tighten, fists ball up, combating.
"I never sold my self out", declaring.
Pleasantly smiles death, patronizingly stating--
"Neither does anyone own you"--overpowering
His empty sayings of a better life, dying.
So I leave the room, and make sure to close the door--
unbearable weeping.
"... although he dies, yet shall he live."

Brass Plaques (a Pantoum)

The metro is a train that runs in the eternal night;
Transporting us who go towards its invisible ends.
We faceless body of our own clever invention--
Gaudy suits and ties, clacking heels with black stockings.

Transporting us who go towards its invisible ends--
A snake burrowing underneath a world composed of
Gaudy suits and ties, clacking heels with black stockings.
One trip is five minutes of lost memory, empty silence.

A snake burrowing underneath a world composed of
Memories of a better future free of disease and fear and
One trip is five minutes of lost memory, empty silence.
When I take his business card, I know I won't call him back.

Memories of a better future free of disease and fear and
The inevitability I will eat chicken tenders by myself tonight.
When I take his business card, I know I won't call him back.
Oh disaster, strike us, perhaps! Shatter the illusion!

The inevitability I will eat chicken tenders by myself tonight
Destroys whatever health I gained from jogging this morning.
Oh disaster, strike us, perhaps! Shatter the illusion!
Judge us, and let us see our faults, and our dirty lies.

Destroys whatever health I gained from jogging this morning--
But then again, there is no love which could hurt my self-esteem.
Judge us, and let us see our faults, and our dirty lies.
Next time I step on that metro car, and must stare at the wall--

But then again, there is no love which could hurt my self-esteem,
And I sat in a hearing today in which my tie matched so well.
Next time I step on that metro car, and must stare at the wall,
I'm bringing earphones and a store of songs I could never sing.

And I sat in a hearing today in which my tie matched so well,
We faceless body of our own clever invention--
I'm bringing earphones and a store of songs I could never sing;
The metro is a train that runs in the eternal night.

A Line in the Sand

The hills surrounding Jerusalem are exquisitely carved, like giant brown sculptures, enticing the eye of the observer. They flank an often clear blue sky, with little on its clear beauty, and a sun that beats down mercilessly in the summer. Palestine is, after all, a Mediterranean country, and not too dissimilar from the far-away Italian and Greek shores. For those who have to travel through these hills often, and who have been traveling for far too long, they only seem to stretch on in monotonous patterns. The heavenly city can be a city of dirt and grime for those who go there for commerce, not to worship.
Alphaeus, of Jericho, was but one of the hundreds of travelers along the two-tracked road winding its way through the Palestinian hills. Many of them were pilgrims, coming to offer sacrifices in Herod's temple, but Alphaeus was a date farmer, a hardy occupation and one that required long journeys when the harvest ended. Today was as rotten a day as ever--Friday--to be walking market, in Alphaeus' opinion. He kicked small clumps of dirt along the road as he slowly plodded on. His dark brown robe, which had a sizeable ring of sweat around his neck and running down his back, swayed back and forth in a regular rhythm, keeping pace with his aching movements. His donkey carried four sacks of cured dates, from his own palm trees at his house near Jericho, and he hoped--oh did he ever hope--that he could fetch a better price than last year. The half-shekel for a sack of dates he earned last year was a pittance in a home with four children and a hard-working wife.
Granted, Alphaeus thought, living off his olive groves, vegetable garden and date palms secured each year the food for the table--it was rare that his family ever went hungry. His land had been his father's, Ben Ached, who had given it to him, the firstborn, at his marriage to Lena, his second cousin on his mother's side. His brothers, of which there had been three, had to move off the land to seek their fortunes in other trades, and all of them were now living respectably, if not with great abundance. A blessing, Ached thought, if only he could make it work so that he had enough pure hard shekel to add something of worth to his residence. So, for the tenth time that morning, he rehearsed again in his mind exactly how he would go about ensuring the highest price for his dates. He hoped for three-quarters a shekel per bag: such a gain would enable him to walk home with a new shawl for his wife, or a new iron handle for his plow, or even a small bag of sweets from the famous Jerusalem bakeries. Just one blissful day--one glorious day of plenty--was all he wanted. He would have to take two more trips besides Jerusalem to other town seeking to sell his dates, but Jerusalem always promised the highest prices since there were so many who came here, faithful Jews, seeking to worship God.
The problem, of course, was the traders. Mean, grubby men, who held spots in the central market that had been handed down to them from their fathers, they controlled trade with the farmers who came from outside the town. Alphaeus and his friends always complained over their selfishness and miserly prices, but there was little that could be done about the matter as any of them who dared sell their goods directly to passerby in Jerusalem was likely to be reported to the guards. With a small percentage from the traders, the guards were more than willing to make sure that only the Jerusalem traders sold dates at inflated prices to the spiritually enthused pilgrims.
Alphaeus spat on the dirt. It made a small wet mark, and was quickly gone as he plodded unsteadily on.
"Ech, Alphaeus, who will you go see first at market?"
It was Ben Hadad, a neighbor of Alphaeus, though not quite a friend. He was heavy-set, with grizzled black hair kept very short on his head. Ben Hadad was known for having a temper that could blaze easily and for little reason. He was both an asset and a curse in dealing with the merchants in Jerusalem. He could bully and get better prices than most, but he could also get himself and his compatriots in trouble with the guards. Alphaeus had spent a whole day in stocks once because Ben Hadad had called one date trader's mother a Roman dog.
Alphaeus thought for a moment. The gentle breeze that was coming on as the afternoon was wore to a close ran through his matted hair. Alphaeus was sure that in only a mile he would be able to see the top of the heavenly city in the distance, floating above the hills.
"Ya'achel ben Rabin."
Ben Hadad looked at him with a smile curling his bear-like face. "Ya'achel? The man who always forgets your name and pretends like he knows you?"
Alphaeus turned and smiled, briefly.
"Ah Ben Hadad... I don't need him to know my name. I need him to buy my dates. He can call me the son of a Greek prostitute for all I care..."
Ben Hadad roared in laughter. It did not take very much to make him laugh.
He put his hand on Alphaeus' shoulder--a meat-like blob of fingers whose weight Alphaeus could feel distinctly.
"Ben Hadad... you must remember that he owes me. If he remembers. I lied to the guards when they wanted to know who had been buying spears and shields."
Ben Hadad became very serious and stared straight ahead.
"He says He is a Zionist," Hadad muttered gruffly. "But he could care less for us... the real Jews... who have to spend the day before the Sabbath walking to on our own feet to sell him our wares that he pays less than he gives the Romans for taxes."
Alphaeus looked at Ben Hadad.
"Honestly, Hadad, he could be the rear end of a camel and I wouldn't care at all. I just want him to buy my dates and give me enough shekel to last to the next feast."
This time, Ben Hadad didn't laugh, but stared down at his own feet. Up ahead, the walls of Jerusalem were just coming into focus, the fortress on a hill.

A Postmodern Buzz

You pursued your self, and then found it.
You gave yourself another name, and then abhorred it.
You treasured the golden chalice of eternal wisdom, and then discovered it tasted bland.
You roasted a delicious turkey and gorged on its flesh - and became promptly sick.
You banged your head against the wall...
all day...
hoping that it would open into a meadow of heavenly bliss,
but found in the end it was actually, quite certainly, indefatigably and undoubtedly,
made of solid cement.
And if the blood flows down over your crushed forehead,
And if the electronic music's beat is now rattling your ears,
And if all of your fairy identity is growing stale --
Please remember, your life will reach its apex on the afternoon of the 31st,
and God was wondering if you could cc Him on the email.

Puppets

Half an hour before five o'clock is when the heavy, saturated air of the after-lunch has receded and everyone in the office is jealously waiting for the day to finally be over. I stared blankly at old-fashioned clock on the far wall that looked exactly like the one in my high school. The time was moving so slowly I was convinced I could taste it.
I slowly idled my small chair around to the inside of my cubicle. A picture of myself and Ronald Reagan hung on the right side. I was wearing a goofy looking campaign T-shirt emblazoned with "Reagan '84", and the octogenarian president smiled confidently, although I thought somewhat blankly. The picture was a memento of what I had once thought of doing, once thought valuable and noteworthy. After a few years working on the Hill and for various campaign offices, I had taken what I thought would be a lucrative job and a stepping stone to a long political career. I now worked at the lobby of a powerful cell phone company, preparing reports on the usage minutes of different subsections of the American population, which were used by someone to talk to some politician about some arcane regulation.
The trouble was, I thought as I stared at my Reagan picture, was that I was actually good at this job. I had enough of a stats background from college to qualify, and I was fairly efficient at compiling the data into a readable form, simplifying and dumbing it down for my bosses, whose sole specialty was in persuading people to grant them favors that cost other people money. My latest report, "Trends in Minute Usage among 18-25 African Americans", lay on my desk. I still needed to edit it, and then submit it to my boss. But so close to five o'clock, it was inhumane to begin to work again.
I turned around and looked at the cubicle behind mine and to the right. Amanda was another analyst working in the lobby who was a decidedly attractive brunette. She had a penchant for black---black skirts, suits, and slacks---which made her seem mysterious, inviting. She was a Ivy League grad, yet was in the same position I was, and hoping for the same break I was. We were not in the same party, but when you spend your day fiddling with Excel, political affiliation does not seem to carry the same weight.
I noticed that she was staring intently at her computer, apparently not influenced by the relaxed atmosphere I felt. Feeling impulsive, and somewhat flirtatious, I reached into my cubicle, grabbed a small rubber eraser in the form of the Republican elephant, and tossed it right near her head. The eraser hit her desk and made her almost jump out of her seat. I chuckled, glad that my trick had worked.
Then she turned around -- and my grin stopped. She was almost in tears, and looked confused. She stared at me for a few seconds, made to turn back to her computer, but then decided to remain where she was and leaned her head down. She was wearing a black button-up sweater that was open, revealing a white shirt underneath. I saw that her mascara was dissolving slightly, but she then put her hand over her eyes, and leaned forward. I could hear what I thought were half-sobs.
She then looked up at me.
Wiping her eyes, she said in a broken voice, "I'm sorry, David, I'm sorry, I just learned from my... mom that my brother was injured in a terrorist bombing in Iraq." She took another break, staring down at the floor. She took a deep breath and continued.
"He might not be able to regain the use of his legs."
A feeling of immeasurable weight came over me. I felt guilty at having been so light-hearted earlier, and even worse that I was thinking of flirting. My face burned, as though I was ashamed, and I felt like this display of emotion was inappropriate for the setting.
I stared at her for a bit, watched her sniveling, and realized I needed to say something.
"I am... sorry, Amanda," I said, doing my best to sound caring. I was never very good at sending that impression to people.
"So... is he coming back here soon?"
"I think, uh, next week. My mom's coming out too."
"OK."
Silence followed, which made me feel like I needed to say something, again.
"But he's OK..."
"Yeah, he's, he's fine."
I stared down at my hands, leaning forward in my chair. "Amanda..." my voice trailed off.
She looked up at me, expectant.
"Eh.... you shouldn't be here right now. You should go home."
Amanda nodded, but did not move.
"This isn't... how its supposed to be."
Amanda looked up again, questioning.
I stood up, put my hands on my hips. I wanted to follow that up with something profound, something that would impress her, help her to understand, enlighten her.
Instead, I said, "Let me get that eraser back I threw at you. I'm sorry about that, I had no idea you were-"
"Oh yeah, sure, uh, where is it?" Amanda turned around and stared at the ground. She spotted the elephant, and gave it to me. Her face was blank, I thought, sort of like Reagan's in the picture.
I made eye contact with her for a second. Her expression was poignant, expressing something I wanted to say. But I did not say anything.
After a few moments, she got up, grabbed her purse, and walked out of her cubicle.
"See you... later." She said, paused, before turning away.
"Bye."

Thunderstruck

Never was a man so small, so broken
Gone, replaced, diseased, torn down, without hope.
Pants from a secondhand merchant, no coat,
Just one mangy measly sweater, colored
Gray. "Need help?" she said, the pretty woman,
Who was painted white and red and feminine.
"Yes," he replied, with fear, and spite, without
A thought of losing face, of losing what
Amounted to the dignity of men
Who straddle life with mismatched socks and slacks.
"A burger, ma'am, a buck, or two, no more--
A smart answer, a quick reply, "Sure thing".
Awkwardly his pale lips part, he lets a smile
Penetrate the barrier within that
Covers his white-knuckled hands, which clutch his last
Remaining thought - a book of dreams almost forgot --
A copy of Dickens, Copperfield, last page missing.